Black Sustenance
by Famirad
Summary: [ Slash ] Eddie Brock thought at first that his hatred for Spiderman, for Peter Parker, would never change. But as he and the Symbiote merge into the creature known as Venom, he finds that hatred isn't as simple as it seems...
1. Prologue

**Black Sustenance**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: Surprise surprise, I don't own Spider-man.  
**Author Notes**: Basically just did this as a last-minute decision to enter a Spider-man slash contest. I didn't think I'd have enough time to do fanart, so I did this...and then I find out there was an extension to the contest. Oops. Anyway, just like...drabblish. Masturbation. Lame title. xP No it's not canon.  
_  
_Edit Decided to make this multi-part.

_Italics_ for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote  
**Archive**: Sure, just ask.

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Black Sustenance  
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(Prologue)

They were starting to lust.

It was a foreign concept to the symbiote. Eddie Brock was familiar with it, but it was of the body only. Once he'd longed for deeper things, more meaningful things, but after the divorce, he'd tried to just bury himself in his work. _And look where that got us._ Not far; he'd gotten screwed over by both the Daily Bugle and by Peter Parker. By Spider-man.

The Spider.

They wanted the Spider. More than anything else, they wanted _him_.

Eddie Brock got to his feet, the springs from the worn bed squeaking quietly under his naked body. The derelict apartment wasn't a particularly choice place to live, but it served their purposes. He only stayed here to sleep and otherwise service himself in private, without unnecessary interruptions. The fact that it was abandoned made it that much easier. Rain ran in uneven trails down the window, trickling over the graffiti scratch marks on the glass and out of sight. Gray light from the street lamps outside pervaded the small room.

Both the symbiote and Eddie liked the rain, if for different reasons. Rain to the symbiote was an efficient process, one that it admired as it observed the cycle of its fall. Rain was self-perpetuating. Self-perpetuating like the symbiote: just as ancient and just as unrelenting. Rain was also good on their skin, cooled them down when the symbiote exerted itself or when something excited them. Rain didn't make marks. Rain was predictable.

The Spider wasn't.

Eddie didn't understand it. By all rights, he should hate the Spider - for destroying his life as Peter Parker and stamping on his grave as Spider-man. But it was hate spawned by envy. Parker had it all: a job, a girl, powers that few possessed. True, he also had his own share of problems, but so did everyone else. Envy made his hate weak. Was part of the reason why he lusted now.

"Can't do it," Eddie muttered, staring into the bleak gloom. He'd gotten into a habit of talking to himself recently; a part of him still needed to hear human voices. "We can't kill him."

_We don't need to._

"We don't like doing unnecessary things."

_No, we don't. We don't need to kill him. We don't want to. _

"So why…?"

Eddie already knew the symbiote's answer. It was just toying with the Spider. Feeding off Eddie's emotions and tying those in with the intimate understanding it already had of Peter Parker, it found enjoyment in such antics. But eventually the game would have to end. And if they wouldn't – couldn't – kill the Spider, then…

"He'll be ours?"

_We'll make him ours. Mark him like he marked us first._

At these words, a dull heat burned in Eddie. The symbiote reacted to this by sending out a black tendril from his naked wrist. He watched in the window's reflection as it snaked up to caress his face softly. His eyes closed as the symbiote continued to touch his cheek. It wasn't just his spite talking. Eddie did want to ruin Parker, stain him beyond any amount of cleansing. They found Parker enthralling, from the way his mind worked to his extraordinary body. Everything about him was just as desirable as it was hateful.

Mark him. They would mark him completely.

They were territorial among other things.

The symbiote was extending another inky tendril now, touching other parts of his body. It serviced him whenever he required it. At first he'd been hotly embarrassed and used to brush the symbiote away frantically until he got tired of it and let it do what it wanted. But now he only leaned against the rain streaked window and spread his legs expectantly. It was useless to fight it when they needed tension released. At least until they found a better outlet. No sense in getting embarrassed about natural needs.

All that was expected of him was to think of their desires while he was serviced. At first it had been everyone but Spider-man. Eddie refused to sully himself by thinking of _him_ while wanking off. It used to be images of women, sometimes of his ex-wife, sometimes of just a body of curves with no face. But those didn't satisfy enough. So one night he tried thinking of the Spider. It had worked beautifully, even though his mental fantasies were violent and ended with the Spider lying in some alley in a puddle of his own blood.

But that was before they knew the Spider's death wasn't what they lusted for.

Eddie's lips parted to let the symbiote enter his mouth. It entered him like a warm tongue as the darkness oozed down toward his nether-regions. His body buzzed with pleasure and he arched into the alien's touch. Eddie kept his eyes closed as the symbiote paused near his hips and spread his legs for him a bit in preparation even as another tendril teased his length into hardness.

_The Spider will be ours. Ours alone. _

And it was only images of Spider-man that danced across his mental eyes. He had only to let the symbiote cover him and suddenly they were no longer the symbiote or Eddie Brock, but Venom, powerful beyond reckoning, a black, hulking form of muscle with claws, fangs and a snaking tongue.

Spider-man was trapped in the dead end of an alley in this scenario. No distractions. No police.

Nothing in this fantasy to come between him and the Spider.

Spider-man feinted to the right but Venom followed him to the left as he bounded up the brick wall with inhuman agility. Venom could feel the fear radiating out from his prey as Parker led him on a futile chase about the empty city. Fear from Parker made Venom drunk with adrenaline. His fear was so beautiful it was a work of art.

There were no smartass remarks. Venom had come to learn that the more Parker talked, the more afraid he really was. But this time there was too much fear and the Spider knew he wouldn't be able to escape this time. For a few minutes, Venom pursued him, crawling up skyscrapers and lunging off into open space after Spider-man when he leaped off. The free-fall was exhilarating, as was the jolt as Venom extended his hand and shot a thick strand of web after his prey, who was swinging around a corner of another building in the artificial canyon.

"Ours, Spider!" Venom bellowed mockingly after Parker. "Only ours!"

Parker said nothing. He only continued to flee.

It was near Central Park that Spider-man finally made his mistake. He moved a second too slow, an inch too far to the right. His fired strand of web sailed through the cold night air without making contact and he started to fall. And that was when Venom swept in behind him and crushed him to his chest with one arm. Spider-man squirmed frantically in his grip as they set down within the enormous park.

Venom's chest heaved with excitement as he bound Spider-man's hands up above his head with webbing to a tree trunk. The Spider responded with a kick that would've taken off a normal human's head. The black Symbiote only gave a low, husky laugh at the dull stinging from his neck. Pleasure was assaulting him from all corners as he bound Spider-man's legs like he had his arms. His prey struggled fitfully. He froze when he felt Venom's claws resting on his head.

"Honestly, Spider. Why do you wear this silly thing? We already know what's behind it," Venom said, voice scolding. With one smooth motion, he pulled the mask off. "You can't fool us."

Peter flinched as the mask slid off and ducked his head away instinctively. This only merited another laugh as Venom cupped the Spider's chin in his claws and forced him to look up. Brown eyes. Innocent brown eyes. If Venom didn't know him inside out, he wouldn't be able to believe that Peter was marked, that he was even the Spider. Peter always looked younger without the silly disguise. Younger especially now since from the neck down, he still wore the skin-tight uniform of Spider-man.

"One again, Spider," Venom breathed. His tongue wormed out between his fangs and worked its way around Peter's neck.

"Let go!" Peter struggled again. He only succeeded in tiring himself out and sagged against the webbing that bound him to the tree.

"Not this time. Not ever. We need you more than ever."

In a distant place outside of this fantasy, Eddie knew he was coming close to completion of the servicing; Venom in the vision was giddy with the pleasure, head throbbing. And for the first time, Venom wanted the Spider to feel an inkling of what it would feel to be one again, give him a teasing little taste. It would be brutal – it was always brutal, no matter how gentle the black Symbiote tried to be – but there would no blood. No blank blue eyes staring up blindly at him as death took Peter when Venom finished with him.

Being one obviously couldn't work if what they desired was dead. And besides, while killing the Spider was a beautiful thing in itself, it was a one-time occurrence. Maybe if Venom could do it over and over again, each time a different method, he'd think differently. But union between him and the Spider was just as good. Better, even.

Venom continued to tease Peter with his tongue, with his fangs, and letting his fear flare out once more until he couldn't summon the strength to struggle or twist his head away. Soon he could only pant in exhaustion, head bowed as Venom raked his claws along the red and blue uniform. It shredded easily.

After that, the union was easy. Far easier than it had any right to be. Technically, it didn't require the same kind of servicing that Eddie enjoyed from time to time, but that didn't matter. Might as well make the most of a trussed-up Spider.

Venom entered Peter the same way the symbiote entered Eddie. The boy tensed at the alien intrusion, his whole body straining against his bonds as Venom ran his claws along his naked skin, hissing, taking care not to damage him further. Peter tried to back into the tree behind him, close his legs together but it was easy to push him back into a desirable position. And as the symbiote began to stretch out and envelop the trapped Spider, Venom continued to pump into Peter, tongue rolling in pure, blinding pleasure. Peter was crying out, mouth open but no sound coming out.

Even killing Peter over and over again couldn't compare with both the servicing and the union.

A brief burst of white in his field of vision blinded him and suddenly the fantasy ended. Eddie sagged against the window, drained. Images of Peter straining against him and the black symbiote crawling up to his neck faded away and were gone before he could recapture them. Pleasure was still there, but nowhere near the intensity as earlier. As usual, disappointment washed over him.

Soon this wasn't going to be enough.

_We want the real thing._

Eddie sat down, leaning against the window sill. A bit sore still, tired too. But he wouldn't even have to wash himself off: it wasn't like before, when he'd done all this with his own hands. This was a lot neater, more intense. But more disappointing too now that he found himself obsessing over one person. It wasn't as easy, when he could just imagine bodies without faces or personalities. In his tunnel vision, all Eddie could see was the Spider.

Eddie looked down. Heat was collecting again and already pooling into the beginnings of another erection.

"We need him soon." The symbiote crept up to cover him. He watched as his hands darkened and sprouted black claws.

_Yes. Soon._ Because soon servicing wouldn't work, and Eddie would start acting without a plan. If he wasn't careful, he might accidentally kill the very thing they lusted after. The darkness continued to spread until Eddie no longer sat in the ruined, damp apartment. Venom glanced about the apartment. Rain was leaking through the cracked roof. Its use as a shelter was running thin. Soon they would have to find a more suitable location. And solve the problem concerning the growing need to be _one_. Without constant servicing, Venom would eventually act without meaning to. It wouldn't do to kill Peter Parker.

A dead Spider was no good to them.

**  
End**  
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Yep, pretty short. Not sure if I'll do another Spidey fic - my knowledge of Spidey is foggy since last time I followed it was like, five or more years ago. xx; Damn movies for reviving the fandomness:p


	2. Imprinting

**Black Sustenance**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: Surprise surprise, I don't own Spider-man.  
**Author Notes**: Basically just did this as a last-minute decision to enter a Spider-man slash contest. I didn't think I'd have enough time to do fanart, so I did this...and then I find out there was an extension to the contest. Oops. Lame title. xP No it's not canon. Decided to do more. Basically it's mostly Ultimate Spider-man universe except Venom's origins are the symbiote and the shuttle crash. Again, plot first, pairings next. :o

_Italics_ for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote  
**Archive**: Sure, just ask.

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Black Sustenance

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(Imprinting)

"Crap. Yet even more crap!" one black and white photo went sliding across the desk, followed by another. "Honestly, do you have anything _not_ with the word 'crap' written all over it?"

Across the desk, Peter Parker sighed, "Sir, that's all I have. You wanted Spider-man, I got him for you."

"Yeah, but there's nothing _dynamic_ about these! I can't have the same pictures with my headlines, Parker. You understand what that'd do to us? We'd lose readers up the ying yang if they thought they were buying the same paper they bought last week!"_  
_

_ They _do_ practically buy the same paper_. But Peter was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. He needed this job, especially since in a few years he'd have to start looking at colleges. ESU would be his ideal choice. Best to start preparing early. But that didn't mean he had to like this. It wasn't very consistent, as jobs went and with a man as volatile as J. Jonah Jameson as his boss, that meant he wasn't sure if he'd get fired or not on a whim, only to be un-fired the next day. _And to top all this off, I have to play Photo Whore just to keep a job where I get trashed every day by this man._

The world was beyond unfair, Peter decided once again. But then again, what else was new?

"_Parker_!"

Peter jumped and managed to look sheepish.

"Honest to God, I'm ranting!"

"I can see that, sir."

"…Jesus Christ, kids these days! They never listen! Think they have the brains to run the damn place," Jameson grumbled. The older man leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. The editor shot a fierce glower at the teenager across the desk. Satisfied that he'd properly cowed the young photographer, Jameson picked up one of the photos, "Crappy or not, we'll run these anyway."

Peter perked up at this.

"But just this time. I want _real_ photos next time. Moneymakers. Get my drift?"

Peter nodded and started to get up from his chair. Today's tirade had been surprisingly mild, especially considering how Jameson had been only three months ago. Back then he'd been totally spazzing, lashing out at any and all whoever even so much as met his eyes. But that made sense, considering the fact that his own son had almost died in that shuttle crash.

"I'll try harder," Peter pulled on his jacket and started for the door. _Guess I can't expect a thanks for that whole shuttle thing_. But Peter really didn't want to remember that night and the weeks that followed…

"Remember, I want something with Spider-man. And while we're at it, that Venom-character."

Peter started at this and shot a look at Jameson. _Does he-? No, of course he doesn't. This's just about the paper. He doesn't know anything about what caused the crash_. Backing out of the office, Peter made a face as soon as he was out of his employer's sight. As he picked up his pay for the photos, he waved absently to the others in the office before stepping into the elevator. It glided toward the lobby.

Peter bit his lip. _Why'd Jameson have to bring up Venom?_ A shudder ran quietly up the length of the brunette's back. He _still_ had nightmares about that whole ideal, no matter how many times he tried to just block it off by hanging around with Gwen Stacy and Mary Jane Watson. Even when Mary Jane tried to ask about it, Peter brushed her off. It was great and all that she knew his secret – that he could talk more freely with her than he could with anyone else – but he still had to draw the line somewhere.

Something things were just better off remaining unsaid.  
_  
I wonder if Venom's still out there._ Three months and there hadn't been any sightings. Peter supposed by now that he should just get back to his life. But it wasn't hard to remember how he'd done so many stupid things to Eddie Brock before…the whole Venom thing. Peter raised his eyes heaven-ward. _I shouldn't have tried to step in and take his job like that. I mean, I'm a kid_. That _was_ his fault – for trying to out-shine an already seasoned reporter.

But the actual creation of Venom…how could Peter have known that Eddie was close by when he'd managed to ditch the symbiote? That Eddie must've seen the whole thing, found the symbiote when Peter removed it. _I_ _couldn't have known_. But Peter could have been more careful, one side of him chided. He should've known…

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(Three months ago)  
_  
I almost killed him.  
_

_ Oh god. I really almost killed him. I-I…can't think. _

Spider-man stumbled down the alley. An old discarded beer can crunched under his feet as he leaned heavily against the wall. His whole body ached and a moan escaped past his lips as he slid down until he was lying on his side. It smelled horrible – he'd the brains to collapse right next to a dumpster – but he couldn't summon up the strength to move. The costume didn't want him to move anyway; he should just sleep and let those voices he'd been hearing take over. Let the symbiote watch over for the both of them until they were ready to move on.

But Spider-man couldn't sleep. Not when only a few minutes earlier, he'd nearly strangled a man to death. Who knew if the murderer he'd apprehended from that house managed to get to a hospital. If anything, the man could be dead now. But Spider-man hadn't been able to control himself when he'd seen Uncle Ben's death played out all over again, this time with complete strangers, and the costume had somehow amplified his rage until he'd been able to come to his senses the last second and drop the beaten man.

After that, Spider-man had fled blindly. He didn't even know where he was now, only that the smell of piss, puke and even worse things were right in his face and he couldn't even crawl away from the god-awful stench. And that wasn't even the worse of his problems.

Pain assaulted him from all sides and he curled up into a ball. His fingers clutched at the black material covering his body, but the costume snapped back without any marks. It felt like his skin was peeling away, melting (fusing?) to the symbiote.

Spider-man couldn't do this. He had to get away.

He was aware of the symbiote trying to send calming waves through the still forming bond. Realizing what the costume was trying to do it, Spider-man frantically summoned enough strength to claw at the smooth ebony costume on his chest, his arms, whatever he could reach. The alien material stretched and he couldn't suppress the cry of pain when his skin screamed in agony in response._  
_

_ Don't do this. It makes our union that much more difficult. _

It took Spider-man a long second to realize that this wasn't his own thought, but the symbiote itself talking. Panting as waves of fire still flared up from where he'd tried to remove the costume, he managed to lever himself up onto his elbows and drag himself away further into the darkness. If he wasn't going to be sick from the putrid scent of trash and human waste, it was going to be from the pain alone. Soon he completely forgot about the man he'd nearly killed minutes before as the pain continued to increase._  
_

_ Stop! I don't want this! _

The symbiote tried again to calm him, but Spider-man continued to reject it. _You don't know what you want, Peter._

_ I don't want _you

Spider-man tried to get to his feet but fell to his knees immediately. He'd never been in this much danger before; not when he'd tried to take on the Kingpin, not even when he'd been shot by the cops after that whole imposter-Spider-man incident that left Gwen without her father and abandoned by her mother. Pain everywhere. Hundreds of little fangs digging into his body. He was being eaten alive and his damned spider-sense wasn't even going off.

Spider-man had to end this. The symbiote was trying to coerce him like it almost had when he'd gone out of control. He knew what it was thinking just as it knew even now what he was considering doing to free himself. Could he do it? Just something simple, like throwing them both into the Hudson and drown the two of them?

He thought about this and in his pain-muddled mind, he knew he couldn't. Not when there was still a chance to be free of this mistake clinging to his body, this alien trying to conquer him. Not when he still had MJ. Aunt May. Gwen. His whole life still out there, interrupted by this stupid costume that was going to kill him at the rate the pain was escalating. _I've… got to find a way to get it off me._ After that he could contain it, dump it somewhere where it could be incinerated. Be free of it and lead his already unnatural life as normally as he could.

But did he really want to do that? The symbiote made him better, faster. More superior to the normal humans than he already was. The pain would go away, like all the other times he'd been hurt. This was a good kind of pain. It wasn't so terrible…

The realization that this was yet another invasion of his thoughts, that the symbiote again had tried to suggest that those were actually _his_ thoughts, was like a dash of cold water. Clenching his teeth together, Spider-man crawled forward one foot. Two feet. Three. Four, and more and more until he was at the end of the ally. How could he do this? His head spun drunkenly and he almost passed out right there and then as his vision faded in and out.

_ I can't do this._

"Don't you dare tell me what to do!" Spider-man hissed. He wasn't even aware he'd spoke aloud. "You're not me!"

_ How do you know I'm not? How can you argue with yourself?_

"Because you're doing it! Leave me alone!" somehow Spider-man had summoned the strength to get to his feet during this exchange. They trembled but didn't spill out from under him this time. He didn't think he'd be able to get up again if they did. One foot in front of the other. He had to find some way to dislodge the costume before he lost the will-power to do so.

Step by step. Soon he reached the cone of light from a street-lamp.

The pain increased in response. If Spider-man could be violently sick, he would be heaving right into his costume right now. But he couldn't – whether it was because he hadn't eaten or because the symbiote wouldn't let him was anyone's guess. In the pained haze he was wandering through, he almost found the latter funny. How hygienic. The stupid thing didn't want him barfing into its face. Or wherever its stupid face was assuming it even had one.

Spider-man found himself staring in a daze up at the midnight sky. He tried to focus, forget how the pain invading his body was starting to level out into a pleasant numbness. The lack of feeling had to be worse than the preceding pain. It meant that the costume had bonded even more to his body. Maybe permanently.

And for some reason, all he could think about was that Aunt May was going to wig out at him for being out this late. He'd be grounded for life. And then some, if he was lucky.

Spider-man's vision blurred. Dammit, he wasn't going to pass out right here in the open like an idiot. Not before he ditched the symbiote and put miles between him and it. Then, as soon as he was far away from it, he could pass out wherever he felt like. _I have to force it off._ Sound waves wouldn't affect the symbiote – that criminal with those hand weapons tried that earlier and it'd just tingled then. But a big energy surge…Spider-man knew that the symbiote had been careful to keep him from contacting electricity…

The only thing close that Spider-man could reach in his condition was the power-lines. Could he even take that amount of electricity? Super-powered or not, he wasn't invincible. _I…can I? _What was he even thinking about again? He couldn't remember through the fog as he sagged listlessly to the side under the lamp light. Something important. Something really, really important…

But somehow he felt relaxed. Drifting away.

Drifting toward becoming one.

_ One? _…Wait.

_ Oh shit. _

Spider-man shook himself through the fog dulling his senses. He _had_ to do this. Forcing his limbs to move and tearing control from the Other's fake-thoughts, from the black costume trying to assume command, he started climbing up the nearest telephone pole. The power-lines had to have a transformer. Something. Anything that would hopefully knock this alien flat on its ass. Probably him too, but he was hoping the symbiote would take the brunt of it.

That was the general idea, at least. Either way, he had to try.

Spider-man reached the top of the telephone pole after what felt like an eternity of climbing. He almost fell off once – the symbiote tried to dislodge him by making the fingers of the costume frictionless but he only clung onto the wooden surface with a feverish death-grip. Cursing the alien costume out mentally, swearing up and down that he'd fall off and break his neck on purpose, see if _that_ did either of them any good, he made to the top without any further problems.

By then, it was starting to rain. Thank God. That meant that he'd conduct the electricity a lot better – no worries about the voltage being too weak now. Reaching out and breaking the transformer's protective casing, Spider-man was surprised to see that his hands were shaking. But that made sense considering how messed up he felt right now.

…_Here goes. _

The costume was deathly silent. Spider-man could feel the anger coursing through the jet-black symbiote.

Spider-man punched into the transformer. He stiffened as electricity ran into him with a powerful jolt. Even through the costume, he could feel the electricity running in a current through his exposed frame. All around him, the symbiote was roiling, a black mass of inky tendrils and fangs. He couldn't tell if it was him or the symbiote making that horrible screaming sound. Something was starting to smoke in the rain and he sincerely hoped that the sizzling sound wasn't coming from him but the alien..

There was a particularly powerful surge of energy and suddenly Spider-man was sailing out into the damp night. All around him, he could see the symbiote pulling apart from his body in inky blobs, black streamers that twisted and convulsed with a life of their own.

The ground came up quickly and Peter hit it hard. Stars burst in his vision. All around him, the symbiote splattered onto the sidewalk like black rain. Winded, the brunette tried to get to his feet, but he couldn't do more than crawl away as fast as his battered body would allow him. He'd crawled several yards away before finally collapsing in exhaustion. Raising his head, long bangs plastered against his forehead by the rain, he eyed the puddles of black ooze lying under the damaged telephone pole.

Was it over?

The symbiote wasn't moving. Was it dead?  
_  
Maybe I killed it._ It was bubbling a little bit, but it wasn't trying to get him. So he either killed it. Or at least stunned it. His mind was quickly starting to clear from the haze induced by the contact with the alien costume. His entire body ached, not just from wearing the costume, but from the contact with the transformer. His limbs weren't quite reacting like he wanted them to. Every now and then they gave a little convulsing twitch. Hopefully that would go away. He'd have a hard time explaining to Aunt May why he'd suddenly developed a nervous reaction like that.

Minutes passed before Peter tried to get to his feet. Using the wall for support and realizing he was far more cold than he should be, he looked down. A stupefied pause. Peter wasn't wearing a scrap of clothing; the stupid symbiote not only tried to possess him (or whatever it was doing), it'd apparently eaten up his original Spider-man costume. As if it couldn't have done anything else wrong, the freaky thing just had to go and do _that_.  
_  
That's just pure evil_, Peter scowled. _MJ's going to wonder why this keeps happening to me… _

Not only that, but he was missing his web-shooters. Wonderful. Those things were _expensive_…but at least he was alive and that was better than where he could've been.

The black ooze puddles still hadn't moved since last time. It was bad enough that he was butt-naked – in a bad neighborhood, no less – but the fact remained that disposing of the black costume was his first priority. He needed a container that had a good seal on it. Staggering over to the dumpster he'd seen earlier, he rummaged around for a container. Peter gagged at the interesting array of smells from the dumpster, but managed to keep from getting gloriously sick.

The sixteen year-old returned with a small soda bottle. It wasn't that strong – just a plastic green one, the wrapping torn partially off – but it still had the cap. He didn't expect it to hold the remnants of the alien costume that long, just long enough for him to get plenty of distance away from it.

Peter approached the black ooze cautiously, bare feet padding silently on the side-walk. No reaction, just the quiet bubbling from the thick puddles glistening in the lamp-light. He knelt down.

"You're more trouble than you're worth," Peter said quietly. He wished it was possible to give the symbiote a good stabbing, but he had the feeling that stabbing it would be just as successful as trying to stab jelly.

Careful to not let any of it touch him, Peter spent a few minutes scooping up the ooze with the bottle cap and pouring it into the soda bottle. Once it was full and he didn't see any signs of the alien substance around the area, he capped the bottle. Inside it, the thick liquid continued to bubble innocently.

_ So now what?_

He hadn't thought about it. His first idea had been to throw it into the ocean, but he was miles away from that. He didn't think he'd have the energy to get over there anyway, especially not without his web-shooters. Peter sighed, staring hard at the bottle. Definitely more trouble than this was all worth. There was no way he was going to bring it back home with him to toss out later. Not if there was a danger of it coming into contact with him again. It was too dangerous for his friends and family. Peter glanced around. There wasn't a lot of options. He just wanted to go home and _sleep_.

Peter sighed. This was probably stupid, but…_it won't be my problem. It's too dangerous if it's with me. Besides, it's probably dead._ Returning to the dumpster, he tossed the sealed bottle in. The garbage trucks would come by in the morning and dump it in a landfill far away from here. The symbiote, if it was even alive, wouldn't have anything to feed on in such a place. It would be out of his hands and no one would get hurt.

It had been stupid for him to hope that things would work out. Peter limped back home, thinking things would right themselves after all that had happened. He limped back thinking the symbiote would be out of his life for good.

It never even left New York; like everything, he found that out the hard way.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(Three months later)

"You're never going to tell me how you _really_ lost the last costume, are you?"

Peter rolled the lollipop around in his mouth as he lounged in the armchair and watched Mary Jane. The red-head was working on his new Spider-man costume, fixing a particularly big tear he didn't remember getting from the last fight he had. The sewing machine hummed quietly as he pretended to be suddenly interested in the ceiling of his aunt's basement.

"I already told you, MJ: one of my fans took it. Said she was going to never wash it and hang it up on her wall," Peter said, speaking around the lollipop. "I bet she's going to sell it for a crapload of money. Money I'll never see since I'm destined to be dirt-poor because of fangirls."

His best friend only laughed. "Come _on_, Peter. You're just making stuff up now."

"Okay, I lied; fan_boys_."

Still bent over the sewing machine, Mary Jane rolled her eyes, "I'm going to keep bugging you until you tell me. I mean, I'd like to know how you lose one of my replacements I made just like that. And where you got that weird black one I saw on the news that night."

"…I just found that. It cramped my style, so I ditched it," Peter said off-handedly.

"Right. And that explains why you arrive at my house practically naked _how_?"

"Hey, you weren't complaining about that."

"So?"

"Voyeur."

"What the hell?" Mary Jane laughed, the sounds of the sewing machine stopping for a second as she shot a grin at him.

"I see what you're up to, peeping tom."

"Peter, peeping _tom_? Since when did I start switching genders?"

"Those, MJ, are minor technicalities. Besides, you ask yourself that. _You're_ the peeping tom, not me."

Mary Jane waved the finished Spider-man mask at Peter. "I think you're forgetting one important thing and that's that I'm the only one who can repair these things. I keep you clothed so you don't run around in whatever you pulled out of the closet."

"What if I _like_ what I pull out of the closet?" Peter asked, grinning as he caught the mask MJ threw at him. "I like to think I look dashing."

"Dashing? Uh huh, sure. Right. Just remember to be nice to me since I make sure that you don't run around naked."

"Like last time."

"Like last time," Mary Jane agreed solemnly.

Peter was just as serious. "Like last time when you were totally sneaking peeps at me."

"I was _not_!" Mary Jane looked for something else to throw at him. Peter ducked the roll of red thread as it came sailing at him and bounced off the armrest. It rolled under the chair he was sitting in. Mary Jane pointed imperiously. "Go get that."

"Why? You threw it."

Mary Jane shook the entire tray filled with thread rolls at him threateningly and Peter scurried after the thread she'd thrown at him. Reaching under the chair, he felt about for the floor for a second before his hands closed around the plastic. He turned and knelt before Mary Jane, holding it out in his hands with his head bowed in mock obedience.

"Here, Your Majesty. A token of my love," Peter said, offering the red thread.

Mary Jane took it back. "Good boy; you're forgiven," she said and patted his head.

"Now why do I suddenly feel like a dog?"

The red-head smiled, but her reply was cut off by the sounds of footsteps on the basement stairs. She hurriedly pulled the costume off the sewing machine and stuffed it under the desk she was working on, kicking the small backpack she'd brought with her over it. Peter leapt up and threw the Spider-man mask he'd been holding into a drawer near Mary Jane's leg. He closed it quickly; cursed quietly as he realized he'd closed the drawer right on top of the mask, shoved it further inside, and closed it again.

There was a knock and the door opened at the same time. Peter froze from where he knelt near Mary Jane. A tall blond teenager stepped into the basement room, a small load of laundry in her arms. The young woman stopped, raising an eyebrow at the scene: Mary Jane was sitting with her back to the desk, Peter kneeling down at her feet, both frozen as if caught red-handed in something.

"Is there something I'm missing?" Gwen asked. "Don't tell me you're 'studying'."

Peter quickly shot to his feet, face flushing slightly red. He knew Gwen's strange little innuedos. "We're not! Really! It's not –"

"-what it looks like," Mary Jane finished.

Gwen snorted, setting down her laundry on the washing machine a few feet from the desk. She began loading her clothing into it. Peter glanced at the sewing machine. The needle was still threaded with red, blue and black, but nothing too incriminating. Still, Gwen was too close to the hidden costume. She had only to happen to look over between the rather generous space between the wall and the desk, and she'd catch a glimpse of the Spider-man costume. Exchanging glances with Mary Jane, Peter popped to his feet.

"Hey, um, let's do something today, Gwen!"

Gwen began measuring out detergent. "Like what?"

"Well, we could go see a movie," Mary Jane said quickly. "Let's go after this. We haven't done anything together in a long time."

Gwen thought about this and shrugged. "Sure. Just as soon as I finish my laundry."

The darkly-clad blond paused, her array of bracelets jangling as she thought of something. She turned and stared at Mary Jane and Peter – they were tensed, looking at her expectantly. Just what were they waiting fo – oh. _That_. They weren't finished with their "studying", Gwen smirked, especially since she'd apparently interrupted something. It was almost cute how they tried to pretend they weren't up to something whenever she was around. And for that reason, Gwen decided to tease them:

"Pete, let's make this a date."

Peter stared, wide-eyed. "A date? As in date-date? As in we'll-eventually-suck-each-other's-faces-off date?"

"Sure. Why not? If you can 'study', you've got time for a date with little me," Gwen grinned, leaning with exaggerated care on the washing machine. She was an extremely pretty girl, if a bit on the tall side, and she knew it. Even crazy over Mary Jane, Peter couldn't help but ogle. The red-head in question was looking ready to give her best friend a nice kick in the shins.

"Hey, hey, no need to get jealous, MJ," Gwen said before that could happen. She winked to show she was only fooling around; they had to both know that she respected them too much to try to break them apart. "There's _plenty_ of Gwen to go around for _everyone_!"

"Good God. She's pimping herself out now," Peter muttered to Mary Jane.

"Getting too big for her britches," Mary Jane muttered back.

Gwen planted her hands on her hips and pretended to look offended. "What's this I hear? Is that the sound of my underlings trying to rebel?"

"Definitely too big for her britches," Peter agreed.

"Hey, I can manage the both of you. So long as you agree to be good children and share me."

"And what's this about underlings?" Mary Jane asked.

"After all, even _I_ can't do anything if you all fight over me. Although that would be one helluva cat-fight, but that's besides the point…"

"She's delusional," Peter said.

"I'd say."

Gwen sniffed and gathered her empty hamper after dumping the detergent bottle inside. "You obviously can't appreciate me and my many fine points yet. But the date's still open to both of you."

"We're honored," Mary Jane said wryly. "I think."

Gwen started for the stairs. "Anyway, I don't care what we do – so long as we get out of the house."

Gwen's footsteps retreated back up to the first floor before Peter dared to relax. Bantering with Gwen was one thing, but doing it in such a situation wasn't something he really cared for. Next to him, Mary Jane sighed and looked over at the door. It was closed again and since sound didn't carry too well in the basement, it was probably safe to talk again. Peter still had a slightly dazed look on his face, the lollipop forgotten in his mouth. Mary Jane grimaced; she'd grown to really like Gwen after getting used to the unpredictable girl, but honestly, she wished Peter wouldn't act so floored by her every time the blond pretended to hit on him.

Which, as it was, happened to be a lot.

"Okay, back to business," Mary Jane said finally. She had to prod Peter with her foot to get his attention.

"Uh…yeah, sorry," Peter ducked his head sheepishly. "…Okay, why can't we do this at your house again?"

"Because my mom would freak out. I mean, she lightened up a lot after kicking my dad out, but…" Mary Jane shook her head, red curls bouncing. "We just need to be more careful next time."

"Yeah," Peter said. He pulled out his red mask from the drawer, running fingers over the black webbing. "Thanks for doing this."

"I seriously should teach you how to sew sometime – like, what if I'm not there to make these kinds of repairs and your costume splits or you moon all of New York or something?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Sewing machines hate me. I mean, I tried touching one before. I swear to God it tried to eat my hand."

"Traumatized for life?" Mary Jane laughed. "And here I thought it took a lot more than that…"

There was an awkward silence at this.

Mary Jane remembered all too well some of her traumatizing experiences: her situation with her family and the things that had started happened after Peter had shown her his secret. Foremost were the memories of being tossed off a bridge by the Green Goblin; if Peter hadn't caught her at the last minute, she would've broken her neck from the impact of the water. Second was when she'd found Peter one night lying in a dumpster, shot by the police, and bleeding all over. _I shouldn't be able to take this._ But somehow she did manage to stick by Peter; it wasn't that easy, worrying about him whenever he ran off to do his self-appointed job and wondering if that was the last time she'd ever see him.

Peter himself had too many memories like that, ones he wanted to just avoid thinking about right now. Forcing a sunny smile on his face, the brunette bent over Mary Jane's sewing machine, pretending to examine it.

"Well, I guess I could _try_ to learn how to sew," Peter said dubiously. "But if you have to rescue me, I want you to know it's _your_ idea to feed me to this thing."

Mary Jane pulled out the rest of the costume with a patient smile. "Don't worry, Peter. I'll be there to save you."

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Eddie Brock glanced up at the sky. It was starting to get chilly, a brisk breeze rattling the drying leaves lining the small side-street and sending the fallen leaves tumbling along merrily. The sun was overhead, meaning it was going to be a nice and cool Saturday afternoon. That pleased both him and his Other; the symbiote disliked heat, especially extreme temperatures. And because they were bonded so nicely, that meant that Eddie didn't care for hot summer days either. They'd suffered in silence back a few months ago, but things had changed for the better since then.

Eddie hadn't bothered to get dressed when they'd left the abandoned apartment a week ago. As always, the symbiote proved its infinite usefulness as it did over and over again by forming his clothing for him. To all appearances, he wore black jeans and a simple black jacket over a clinging turtleneck of the same color; a material that seemed to catch the light and swallow it. It was surprisingly quite comfortable to wear. And nice and cold too.  
_  
We must think this through. Plan carefully. Can't kill our prey._

Naturally Eddie knew where Peter Parker lived; the boy's memories were imprinted on the symbiote after all. Back when Venom had just been born, he would've just charged in headlong, ripped apart the little Queens' house and dragged the young Spider out after slaughtering all the other inhabitants. But three months and then some had given Eddie and the symbiote plenty of time to mature.

Violence, while often a good answer to most problems, wouldn't work here. At least not immediately.

_ We're too strong now. If we act like a youngling, we won't become _one_ with our Spider._

"Exactly."

Hence why they were holding back. Glad to see their trains of thought were so identical.

"We'll watch the house," Eddie said aloud. He stood under the shadow of a tree across the street from the Parker residence, watching the modest two-story dwelling with narrowed eyes. No movement so far. But people _were_ in there.

_Re-union. Our Spider..._ The symbiote's growing excitement was contagious and Eddie found himself starting to smile in anticipation: they both could detect Peter's special presence even from here, although it was faint at this distance.

It wouldn't be long. They could afford to wait a week, a month at worst.

Eddie knew that being so close to the Spider made him need servicing right now but he suffered through it. The symbiote couldn't do that out in public. He'd just have to wait until they finished for today. Still, it made him tense and while he was delighted to be so close to Parker, he was also starting to get cranky._ Leave the house, Spider_, he hissed mentally. _Just go out on one of your little patrols so we can have a nice little talk. Or at least so we can see your face again._

But there was still no movement from the Parker house.

The shadows cast by the trees had moved a few feet over before there was activity worth noting. Jolted by this from his latest fantasy regarding Peter, restraints and using electricity on the Spider (see how _he_ liked that), Eddie looked up. The front door of the Parker house had opened. Eddie turned and leaned nonchalantly against the tree, casting his gaze sidelong to watch the house. The Spider couldn't catch them on that little spider-sense of his, and if he were to glance over in Eddie's direction, it would only appear that a stranger was waiting for someone from another house.

Eddie watched as two girls left the Parker home. One was tall, bright blond hair spilling past her shoulders. Bracelets of metal and plastic covered her wrists, and she was casually slinging a studded leather jacket over her shoulder as she pretended to tap her black booted feet waiting for her companions. The second girl was familiar – Eddie knew her well from the symbiote's memories.  
_  
Mary Jane. _

One of the people that the Spider had thought about constantly. Her fiery hair was shorter than they remembered, but they recognized very well her movements, her appearance. Even if Mary Jane had pulled the hood of her forest-green sweater over her head before she'd stepped into view, Eddie would have still known who she was. He knew that while _he_ hadn't anything against her, she was still a threat to their goal. And the symbiote itself didn't care for her, seeing as she was one of the reasons the Spider had fought free of the first attempt at bonding.

But neither the strange blond nor Mary Jane were worth more than a cursory glance right now.

The real prize was when Peter Parker left the house, trotting down short steps to join his friends. Heat boiled up all over Eddie's body and he had to stop from fully morphing into Venom and taking the Spider for himself right now. The Spider he always envisioned in his head couldn't compare to the real thing.

_ All ours. All ours_, the symbiote whispered.

"All ours," Eddie agreed softly, watching their prey as if arrested. "He belongs to us."

Peter looked a bit older than the last time they'd met – whatever had happened in those three months since then had changed him. He'd…matured. They could tell that just by the way he moved. His appearances were overall the same as they remembered, had obsessed over for all this time: shortly-cut coffee-brown bangs framed an expressive face already growing lines of weariness. Peter'd just thrown on a black shirt over a long-sleeved blue one, but that didn't quite conceal the lean muscles of the Spider.

How old was Peter anyway? Oh yes. Not seventeen, since his birthday wasn't for a while. Still sixteen then.

Still but a child in Eddie's eyes. Still but a youngling in the symbiote's.

_ Not that age matters._ They both wanted the Spider and they would get what they wanted.

Eddie watched as Peter talked for a few minutes with his friends. The boy listened to something the tall blond girl said and then laughed with Mary Jane about it. Eddie found that his teeth were grinding together in sheer frustration. They were mocking him, daring him to make a move. But that's what they wanted, wasn't it? For him to blindly rush forward in their lust. _No. We're smarter than that now. We know better. _

Right now the Spider wasn't ready for their union. He had too many things to fight for, too many things that would make him too strong, his will too powerful. If he rejected them again, there wouldn't be any more chances, not if their prey had fought as desperately as before.

_ We can't back him into that corner yet._ Peter Parker would just fight tooth and nail if they just pursued him right now; that would be very…unpleasant. Not just for Spider-man, but for all parties concerned. And as powerful as they were as Venom, they had no desire to make it more difficult than it had to be. After all, that wasn't productive. It'd just waste their energy. It was hardly efficient to operate like that when patience would pay off more than the waste.

There was still plenty of time.

…_no need for us to rush just yet…_

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Peter blinked as Mary Jane and Gwen calculated how much money they'd have to spend for the movies and dinner. He could've _sworn_ someone was watching him. _Funny_. _Is my spider-sense going wonky?_ It shouldn't; normally it was fairly accurate. It'd saved his life – and the lives of others – plenty of times. No reason to start doubting it. The brunette glanced about, eyebrows knit together in concentration. There wasn't anyone he could see on the street except for a dark shadow of man a few houses away and he was just -

" – so that's fine with you, Peter?"

Peter turned toward Gwen, puzzled. "What?"

"Twenty dollars per person for the movie and dinner. How's that sound?"

"Oh. Um…yeah, sounds fine," Peter said quickly. He glanced back to where he'd seen the man.

The man was gone. But the growing unease remained…**  
**

**  
To be continued**  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

I prefer Venom's symbiote "shuttle" origins instead of the Ultimate Spider-man origins or the whole Secret Wars deal, so I'm trying to blend that in with the rest of Ultimate Spider-man, which I'm trying to keep relatively true to up to this point. : Mostly since I love how they portray the characters (Peter, Gwen, MJ, etc...although seeing Conners as a drunk was sorta sad since I have fond memories of him from the 90's cartoon as being the loveable scientist who...like...didn't drink? ;P)

Anyway, I know this part wasn't uber-slashy...or even meriting the R rating. But when I write, I don't write mindless sex or anything; plot always comes first for me. ;

If you want to contact me or ask questions, my e-mail is and my AIM SN is Famira Damaris. Thanks for reading.


	3. My Personal Watchdog

**Black Substenance**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Spider-man.  
**Author Notes**: Mostly Ultimate Spider-man universe except Venom's origins are the symbiote and the shuttle crash from the 90's cartoon. Again, plot first, pairings next. :o If there are spelling mistakes, I'll fix them if and when I finish this story. :) Some slash implications, I suppose.

Also, here's hoping Venom's in Spider-man 3!

_Italics_ for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote  
**Archive**: Sure, just ask.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X  
Black Sustenance  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(My Personal Watch Dog)

The bus ride wasn't too bad; Peter felt a lot better once they got off at their stop, and he couldn't help but wonder if maybe the whole superhero gig was making him a bit too jumpy. He wouldn't be surprised if it was, but still…there wasn't any reason for him to be looking over his shoulder all the time. There hadn't been anything really big for the last couple of months and the worst he had faced since then was a couple of carjackers who fled the second they caught a glimpse of blue and red. Aside from that, there hadn't been much need for him to suit up and he spent more and more time as Peter Parker hanging out with his friends then swinging around on patrols as Spider-man. _I'm getting way too paranoid_, Peter sighed as he glanced yet again behind them, the bus pulling away into traffic.

The three of them headed into the large Loews theater. Surrounded by the smell of buttered popcorn and the bright lights lining the main hall, Peter found himself relaxing, checking over his shoulder less and less as he focused his attention on the here and now.

Gwen pocketed her ticket stub from the usher and joined them in the main area of the lobby.

"So! Who's up for popcorn?"

Mary Jane winced, "Not too much – I'm not that hungry."

"What about you, Pete?"

Peter shook his head. "I guess I could just share a Coke or something with MJ."

"Awww…that's so cute of you two," Gwen grinned. "That's fine, just don't make out too loudly, okay? Some of us are here to see the movie."

Peter rolled his eyes at this. "We'll try to keep it down for your sake."

Gwen led the way into the theatre – the tickets said it would be the fifth, found on the right down the hall. Peter hung back until he was walking side by side with Mary Jane down the hall. The red-head smiled at him, keeping her voice down;

"Y'know, I'm glad we're doing this, just hanging out and stuff."

Peter nodded. He held open one of the double doors into the dark auditorium for Mary Jane. "Me too. I can just have fun for once, like a normal person."

They entered the amphitheatre, going up the narrow aisle and pausing at the stadium seating. It was fairly full, and with the way everyone was seated, there wasn't any room of them to sit together as a group. Gwen stopped, looking put-out as she chewed thoughtfully at her lip for a moment.

"Well, this sucks," she said. "Now what?"

Peter glanced quickly at the available seats. He saw a few paired seats scattered here and there, but that left the problem of who would be sitting with who. He could sit with Gwen or sit with Mary Jane, leaving one or the other to sit alone, neither of which were probably good ideas. He had to admit that he liked Gwen a _lot_ – maybe more than he should, for a friend - and Mary Jane seemed to give him weird looks whenever he hung out with Gwen too much. Peter didn't know what the deal was with that. He didn't want to have to make this decision right now, not when they were supposed to be having fun and hanging out.

"I'll, uh, go get popcorn," Peter said quickly. He started trotting back to the lobby outside, giving a wave. "I'll be right back."

"Wait, Peter – "

The auditorium suddenly darkened, casting Mary Jane and Gwen in flickering darkness. Gwen grabbed Mary Jane's hand in hers.

"The trailers are starting, let's get a seat."

Mary Jane paused indecisively for a moment before she followed. "But…"

"Peter hates trailers," Gwen said with a shrug. "It's not like he'll miss anything."

The red-headed girl frowned. She hadn't known that Peter didn't like movie trailers and for some reason, this seemed like very vital information, as if it was something she as his best friend should have known. It rankled somehow that Gwen knew this but she hadn't. _I'm _not _jealous._ Mary Jane had to repeat this before she could offer a tentative smile in the darkness, glancing up as Gwen led her up the steps to some seats in the aisle.

"You're right. Besides, how long could it take for him to get popcorn?"

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Eddie found this part of town tiresome. Too many bright lights – in the middle of the day, no less! – too many people, too many offensive smells that the normal humans seemed oblivious to. The symbiote had to agree, murmuring it was a wonder how humans could comfortably wallow in their own filth and _not_ be sickened by it. Unhygienic little beasts. The only solace Eddie could take was that at least he wasn't in the middle of all that garbage, walking with the others on the sidewalks like sheep, like pigs; instead he was suspended comfortably several stories up, perched up against the wall under deep shadows cast by an overhang. He sat back on his heels, gazing down at the movie theater below.

The Spider had gone inside a while ago with his little friends. Chances were the boy could be in there for a few hours, unless he happened to sense something wrong outside – so far, it was quiet and Eddie wished that one of those idiots would hurry up and rob a bank or steal a purse or whatever it took to get his prey's attention. Eddie debated with himself whether or not he should just follow Peter inside. There was a good chance Peter would recognize his human face if he sauntered right in, and the Spider knew that Eddie Brock had no love for him. Besides, he knew Eddie was Venom. A face to face confrontation in public could be problematic. Enjoyable, yes. But while Venom was powerful, Venom was also still maturing. Eddie still didn't have access to all the gifts the symbiote could offer him. A direct confrontation in such a crowded area might not be the way to go, at least not yet.

Waiting for Peter proved to be rather boring. Eddie tried amusing himself by carving out some of the wall behind him, but tearing up ribbons of concrete and brick lost its amusement factor quickly. The symbiote was surprisingly dormant, deciding that all this waiting simply wasn't worthy of its attention, leaving its host to his own devices.

Eddie's face was calm and composed, but inside he was starting to beat his head into a wall, frustrated and impatient. Anger curled in his head and stomach like a snake, hissing and heavy and getting increasingly irritated. Where were the damn criminals? He knew that Spider-man had made plenty of enemies by now – the Green Goblin, Doctor Octopus, among others equally insignificant and unworthy – and he wished that one of them would get it into his head to go into a rampage and draw his Spider out.

Eddie heaved a growling sigh.

He waited an hour and started into the next when he suddenly picked up the scent of something burning. A few experimental sniffs. He tuned his heightened senses forward, perking up. Something on fire. The symbiote recoiled a little at this with loathing. Fire. Electricity. They hated them both with equal passion. Still, if he could smell it this far away, it meant that Spider-man would probably come sallying forth from that movie theater like the little hero he pretended he was once he sensed it as well. Eddie leaned forward expectantly, eyes on the Loews' entrance.

It took a bit longer than he expected – he could spot the column of smoke rising in the distance and growing, and sirens had begun to wail before he spotted Peter. The sixteen year-old glanced left and right before slipping into a side alley, forced to hide behind a dumpster as he hurriedly changed into his quaint little costume. Eddie personally thought that the boy was asking for it when he donned that teasing thing. It clung tightly to his body, as if _begging_ for Peter to get jumped. It was a wonder that none of the others declaring themselves his enemy hadn't taken advantage of that.

Foolish, all of them.

_Indeed. _The symbiote agreed. _But less competition. Convenient for us if we don't have to fend off challengers for our rightful claim to him._

The symbiote was right, as always.

_But of course, Host Mine. _

Eddie had always liked it when the symbiote called him that – the symbiote desperately wanted the Spider like he did, but there was a strange kind of affection for its current host as well. It had been a long time since it had a host that it considered intelligent and somewhat civilized, and while Eddie knew that the ancient Other probably thought he was crude at times, it was an odd comfort to know that he could always count on the "voice" to always be there.

_Your destiny is my destiny, little human_, the symbiote had said when Eddie came upon it wandering around that fateful night, when it had been wallowing around, trapped and dying in that bottle. Eddie had been seriously debating how to end his life at that time, too fed up with all the bullshit the world kept throwing at him. _I will give you life if you will give me mine._ _I will give you purpose and much more if only you would accept the gifts I offer._

It hadn't been that hard of a choice. Despite the discomforts and changes due to their bonding, Eddie wasn't at all sorry.

Eddie watched as Peter finally finished changing, pulling the mask over his young face with a tug. He remained in the shadows as the Spider came swinging by on a line of webbing, completely intent on the tower of smoke several miles away and following the sirens and flashing lights of the emergency units buzzing the streets down below. Eddie waited a few more minutes before creeping out under the overhang, the symbiote's black material morphing around his body and face in thickening tendrils, forming claws and fangs and a roiling, slimy serpentine tongue that flicked and tasted the air.

Lazily extending one clawed wrist forward, Venom shot loose a string of web, and set off in pursuit of his prey. He was careful to keep a safe distance, keeping the red and blue of Spider-man just in sight, taking his time and web-slinging leisurely from building to building. No need to hurry. They had plenty of time.

Fire engines were already attacking the burning building with powerful jets of water by the time Spider-man arrived. He paused for only a few minutes, listening in on a couple of cops talking amongst themselves. From the way he took off in another direction, it seemed like this fire wasn't just some accident, Venom decided. Not with the kind of purpose his Spider was moving with.

He still wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish by stalking his prey. The symbiote reminded him that by keeping an eye on the boy – _their _boy – they were simply keeping track of property, but he couldn't understand just what the point was following him all over as he played at Cops and Robbers. _Well, think of this as exercise, then_, purred the symbiote_. Putting you through your paces. Even we need to get out and move to keep us strong and fit to hunt._

Good point as any, Venom supposed.

They trailed Spider-man as he glided around a corner, swinging between the canyons of concrete with his typical grace and closing in on a swerving black van. Silently, he let go of his web-line and flipped through the air in a neat arc, long arms and legs tucked in like a professional and landing on the top of the van, causing it to careen off to the left. Venom hung back, keeping several hundred feet up just for safety's sake, and watched with interest. Their Spider had indeed improved; less gawky, more in control, and by default now more _desirable_.

A few gunshots rang out. Spider-man somersaulted neatly out of the way, seeming to fall off the side of the van only to come back with a kick through the driver's window, his lithe body sliding right through shattering glass and disappearing into the vehicle. The black van swerved uncontrollably and careened to the right, sliding until it began to tip over and flip onto its side. It slammed into a lamp post, sending civilians scurrying for cover as masked men spilled out, coughing as smoke billowed out. Venom was prepared to sit back and watch until the last criminal popped out.

Correction: more like _oozed_ out.

First a nondescript head popped up, followed by a torso in a stripped shirt. Venom wouldn't have been able to pick him out of the other humans. The muscled man hauled himself out, the van still rocking underneath him as Spider-man dealt with the men upfront and suddenly he was slithering out in a mass of what appeared to be _sand_. The sand mass arced out and curled around, slamming into the broken driver side window like a bullet. Venom caught a glimpse of Spider-man getting propelled out the other side, glass shards sparkling out like snow, as the man of sand came barreling out after him.

_You most certainly have an interesting world, Host Mine_, the symbiote commented.

"Hey, people turning into sand isn't natural. The guy's a freak," Eddie hissed in Venom's voice. "You'd be surprised how many we've got in New York."

The symbiote only gave a bubbling hiss that was the closest thing to laughter. Venom moved in closer, claws sinking into the walls as he made his way down. Their Spider seemed to be having some trouble with this new foe: currently he was trapped in a thick tendril of sand and struggling to get his way out as the other criminals began pulling themselves together and reaching for their guns. The Sandman (Venom wasn't feeling particularly creative today) had reformed his legs and waist, but his top half was gone, twisted into a huge mass of shifting orange sand that ballooned out into the air. A twist of the portion around Spider-man's stomach and the boy was slammed first into the wall and then into the sidewalk with bone-cracking force, cracks rippling out.

And that was _before_ he suddenly disappeared into a ball of sand.

It occurred to Venom that perhaps this Man of Sand was actually higher on the food chain than their Spider, at least for the time being.

At the rate he was going, either he or his flunkies would actually injure – or kill – Spider-man.

That was simply unacceptable.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Some people had luck and all the perks that came with it. Harry Osbourne was one of those people. Peter Parker was not. He had two kinds of days: okay and crappy. Today was shaping up to be of the crappy variety.

As usual.

When he'd encountered the van fleeing the scene of the fire, he'd assumed it was going to be easy. Swing in as your friendly neighborhood Spider-man, knock out the driver, web up the criminals, book it back to Loews and actually _finish_ a movie for once. The hardest part would be trying to explain the new bruises to Gwen and MJ. He certainly hadn't expected to run into a man _made of sand_. As he was flung back and forth like he weighed nothing, Spider-man vaguely tried to figure out the science behind this and found he couldn't explain it. It just wasn't scientifically possible. Maybe in comics, but hello, this was real life!

He hated to say it, but this Sand Dude was kicking his ass across New York.

No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to lose the guy. The guy was everywhere – his head and arms would melt into sand at will and whenever Spider-man tried to go for the legs, he'd find himself get punched backward like he'd been hit by a train. Out of the corner of his eyes, he thought he spotted the rest of the cronies pulling out some guns and making eyes in his direction. This could get ugly quick. He could do all a spider could, sure, but that didn't make him bullet-proof.

He bounced from another throw and rolled onto his hands and knees, gazing up as Sand Dude and trying to figure out how to tackle this new freak-show. What was it with these people and having all these weird superpowers? _Says the guy who runs around in spider tights. _

…_Okay, shut up Peter, you're _not _helping right now._

"So what do you call yourself?" Spider-man got to his feet, brushing himself off and trying to pretend that he didn't have a raging headache from getting smacked around. "Beach Bunny Sandy? 'Cause, y'know, I think Twinkle Toes Joe works too."

"Cute," his opponent growled, solidifying just enough to spit back a reply. "Is this the extent of the famous Spider-man wit?"

"Hey, I try. Doesn't help when I've got a tough crowd like you and your buddies," Spider-man retorted, nettled. "Seriously, I've been calling you Sand Dude in my head this whole time; it's really distracting when I'm trying to fight you, I'll have you know."

The man in the green and black stripped shirt glowered. "It's Sand_man_ to you, punk."

"Original."

"Like yours is any better," Sandman grunted and began shifting again, features starting to melt away.

A nice heavy dose of webbing hit him in the face and he reeled backward, for a second disoriented as he clawed it from his eyes with a curse.

Spider-man leapt at him. He caught a glimpse of the other criminals raising their weapons in his direction – they held them like they knew how to use them, he realized nervously – before he was suddenly engulfed in darkness. He struggled, but the darkness clung to him, shifting in response to his movements and constricting. His mask was helping a little, but it was hard to breathe and he swore there was sand getting into some downright awkward and wrong places now.

Jokes aside, he was in trouble. _Deep_ trouble. He wasn't sure exactly, but it looked like Sandman had somehow encircled him completely. If he didn't escape, he could probably suffocate or worse, and both were going to be very real possibilities at this rate. He struggled harder, but the sand kept absorbing his kicks and punches. Some of it was trying to force its way into the mask.

After a few minutes, Spider-man's struggles started to slow down. Fighting suddenly seemed so tiring and his arms must've been injected with lead or something, because for some reason he couldn't seem to lift them. His eyes fluttered behind the mask as he sagged into the coffin of sand. It shifted but he only took vague notice, feeling himself sinking.

"You heard me!" Sandman's voice drifted up around him. He was talking to the others. "Get the equipment before the cops arrive!"

"What about Spider-man?"

"What about him? Get – what the _fuck_!"

A deep, guttural hiss. "The Spider is mine alone, Man of Sand!"

Spider-man heard a muffled crash and a few panicked shouts. Boom, rolling gunshots. Yelling and suddenly he was shoved out of the sand coffin, hitting a wall and falling heavily. Trying to collect his wits about him, he tried to raise his head, vision blurring. Something black and man-sized was darting around the criminals with brutal, inhuman speed: wherever the black shadow went, the men were suddenly down. Some of them were forming red puddles and not moving. Sandman was completely occupied with fighting off this creature.

He must have blacked out at one point. The next thing he knew, he was being lifted up by someone. He coughed, feeling something in his lungs – sand – and tried to push away, but the claws around his neck tightened in warning.

"Stop squirming," a voice growled. "We could snap your neck right now if we wanted."

Spider-man went still. Something fumbled with his mask, drawing it delicately so it rested just above his nose as something wet touched his cheek and dragged a slimy trail over it. Too-warm fingers were brushing against his jaw-line and lips. Unable to resist, Spider-man tensed, trying to gather his wits about it. It was surprisingly hard, what with this fog in his head and he found he couldn't seem to do more than feel – thinking was too hard and he was almost certain he was going to pass out pretty soon. The fact it really hurt to breathe probably had something to do with that.

"We sense you have sand in your lungs, Spider," the voice said.

Something wet was forcing his mouth open and he felt something downright weird entering inside him. It wiggled around and settled in his chest as he struggled to keep breathing. It abruptly pulled itself out, leaving a faint gritty taste of sand, and suddenly he could breathe without it hurting.

"Foolish boy. Always attacking predators stronger than yourself."

Spider-man felt himself getting slung non-too-gently over something hardly – a black, silky shoulder, from what he could see – and the street suddenly looking very far away. Whoever had helped him was carting him off to who knew where and he didn't have the strength to fight back or even look up to identify the man. He hung there weakly, eyes drifting closed with a will of their own as he passed out.

**To be continued**  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Yeah, I actually updated. xD;

Anyway, I know this fanfic isn't uber-slashy...or even probably meriting the R rating. But when I write, I don't write mindless sex or anything; plot always comes first for me. So yeah. Stuff.

If you want to contact me or ask questions, my my AIM SN is Famira Damaris. Thanks for reading.


	4. Elimination Game

**Black Substenance**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: Naturally I don't own Spider-man.  
**Author Notes**: Basically it's mostly Ultimate Spider-man universe except Venom's origins are the symbiote and the shuttle crash. Again, plot first, pairings next. Title's aren't my strong point. :(

_Italics_ for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote  
**Archive**: Sure, just ask.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X  
Black Sustenance  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(Elimination Game)

He _had_ him. He had fucking _Spider-man_ at his mercy. Spider-man! The guy running around as if he was New York's unwanted savior, dressed up in that retarded costume, and here Flint Marko almost _had_ him. But then that freak – a mutant? – jumped in just as it was getting good and actually gave him a run for his money. It seriously pissed him off. So damn close. It would've been a hefty increase to his paycheck if he'd managed to capture Spider-man and find out just who the hell this joker was. But instead, he stuck babysitting these idiots and making sure they didn't damage any of that equipment they stole.

One of the most observant ones noticed his soured mood.

"What's up, Boss?"

Flint sneered. "I'm pissed off, god dammit! Y'know how much money Spider-man could be worth if that freak in black hadn't shown up?"

"But we're going to make a killing off those already, aren't we?" the flunky nodded toward the towers of boxes crowding their getaway truck.

"I'm talkin' _extra_," Flint crossed his arms over his burly chest, craggy brows drawn together in a scowl. "Just 'cause we're criminals don't mean we can't use the heads God gave us. I'll make it nice and simple: Spider-man's been runnin' around town for what, a few months? Everyone's dyin' to know who the hell this punk is and some are willin' to pay far more than what we're makin' from this job."

"So..?"

Sand swirled from Flint in an annoyed puff as he settled back against the interior wall of their truck. "Think about it. If I could capture Spider-man, we could collect on the reward for identifyin' him. Or! Or…we could always blackmail him – have him do us the odd job or favors in exchange for not blowin' his cover. The possibilities don't end; Spider-man's a walking goldmine."

_That_ captured everyone's attention. The first flunky gave an impressed whistle, taken aback.

"That's just genius, man."

Flint smirked. "And that's why I'm head of this job and the rest of you boys follow me instead of the other way around. I do the thinkin' and fightin' and you don't have to worry about a thing."

They laughed and went back to business, leaving Flint to think over what he said. Now that he'd calmed down somewhat and the adrenaline from that last fight began to ebb away, he realized that this was indeed a _very_ good idea. One of his better ones, in fact. Working jobs like these you got to _know_ people and he knew quite a few who would be interested in getting Spider-man served up on a platter – _very_ interested. Capturing Spider-man couldn't be too hard, not if that was the worst fight he could put up. If it was, Flint couldn't help but feel little disappointed, like he'd been cheated somehow of some harder challenge. Well, he supposed he could blame _The Daily Bugle_ for constantly hyping up Spider-man.

Something about Spider-man seemed off, though. He looked pretty short – toned, sure, but the fact remained he was damn short, as if he wasn't quite done going through a growth spurt. Second, he struck Flint for some reason as young, far younger than he expected, and all that incessant bantering didn't strike him as something any self-respecting adult would say. That left a range of mid twenties to teens, Flint supposed, which narrowed it down a bit…but not by much. There were a _lot_ of people in fitting that profile in New York.

Until Flint was finished with this job, he wouldn't have time to go hunting for Spiders.

Damn shame, but the job always came first.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

They didn't know what possessed them to waltz off with the Spider. At the time, it seemed important that he come with them, but looking back on it, Eddie Brock wasn't sure just _why_ he was lugging around this deadweight all over New York. Whatever injuries Parker suffered were bound to be harmless and what with Sandman chased away, the boy was hardly in any danger. Sudden irrational hatred welled up in Eddie for a second as he realized he'd saved _Parker_ of all people.

It would take all of two seconds to let go and watch as the insolent brat slid off his shoulder and plummeted to a gloriously gory death seventy stories below.

_Now, now, Host Mine,_ purred the Other. _Let us not be hasty._

He wasn't. Note how Parker wasn't a bloody splat on the sidewalk.

_Keep it that way; you and I both need him. _

Yes, yes, he knew. Still, old habits died hard.

Venom set down on the rooftop of some apartment complex – it was crowded on all sides by trash and fence, and if anyone was trying to spy from another building, they wouldn't see much, if anything. Spider-man was still unconscious, arms and legs limp and dangling freely as Venom prowled the length of the rooftop, making sure they were alone and wouldn't be interrupted. Satisfied that they would have privacy, Venom returned to the darkest corner, dropping Spider-man onto an old mattress shoved into a corner. The boy quietly slid off his shoulder and slumped backward.

It didn't help matters that his legs happened to spread open as he hit the mattress.

Growling, Venom flung himself backward until he was crouching down on the back of his heels, trying to ignore the longing ache at the sight of those open thighs. That stupid little costume of Parker's really didn't hide much, did it? He cradled his head in one clawed hand, tongue lolling out with lust. Before this, he had been somewhat normal, the Eddie part of Venom thought. Before this, he hadn't even been interested in Parker, much less the idea of having a good fuck with another _man_. The symbiote Other didn't care much about gender: where it came from, such things were unimportant. Irrelevant.

So then why the sudden interest in Parker?

Black ooze retreated, uncurling around Eddie's head and leaving him free to breathe the fresh air from the neck up. He leaned back, tilting his head backward as he closed his eyes and took a good deep breath. The question of Parker had been on his mind since they had decided to pursue him from a distance, but he hadn't questioned why until now.

The answer came grudgingly from the Other.

_I must reproduce soon_, the Symbiote uncurled in Eddie's mind, whispering into his ear. _I believe they call these feelings the signs of the "urge to mate" and "bear offspring", in your inferior human languages. Since I currently feel the urge to mate with our Spider, you feel the same attraction as I do._

Eddie wasn't quite sure he liked the idea of another Venom running around, even if it _was_ just a baby. And the vibes he was getting off his Other told volumes: the Symbiote wasn't exactly too keen on the idea of reproducing either. Images of previous offspring flashed in Eddie's head. Much of it was ass ugly. This symbiote wasn't exactly the best parent and it showed. Every one of them had been instable or uncontrollable, which was part of the reason why the Symbiote had come to Earth in the first place: it had hoped that with so many inferior hosts on this planet, the urge to reproduce just wouldn't arise and it could exist in peace.

"Came to the wrong planet, didn't we?" Eddie growled to himself. "Didn't know there were so many mutants and altered hosts. So what now?"

_We'll mate and reproduce when we're ready_, said the Symbiote. _And then we kill the offspring in front of Parker, to show him that he is marked as our property._

And here Eddie thought _he_ was harsh! He had to give the Other credit though for being that gutsy – or just that detached. Looking down on the prone body lying on the mattress before him, Eddie reached over with one claw and lifted up the webbed mask. Parker's eyes were closed, his breathing quiet and steady, lips parted slightly. Somehow Eddie knew not to do anything too drastic with the boy – the Other knew that trying to mate with him now in both the human and symbiote fashions would probably kill him – but that didn't mean he had to keep his hands to himself.

One claw traced the curve of Parker's cheek almost tenderly, cupping it as he leaned close, only inches away. The Symbiote was practically humming with pleasure by now, anticipation which seemed to vibrate through out the length of his whole body as he let his claws fall on the boy's neck, the other starting to reach down toward his tantalizingly spread thighs…

Parker at that moment choose to open his eyes.

They fluttered open slowly, still in a numbed daze, and fixed blankly on Eddie's face.

Without a change in expression, Eddie applied a little pressure and squeezed – it was so ridiculously _easy_ – his claws tightening around Parker's smooth neck. The boy didn't even struggle. Those deliciously hazel eyes simply fluttered closed again as Parker relaxed back into unconsciousness, face tilting to the side almost submissively.

That had been too close. They didn't want Parker to know they were suffering the indignity of helping him fight his own battles, much less stooping down to rescuing him.

Venom's fanged face reformed around Eddie. They undressed Parker as much as it took to make sure he was fine physically (it wouldn't due for their Spider to be damaged internally or externally), and then started to pull his mask back down. Venom paused. Well, he supposed he could indulge himself just a _little_. Cradling the unconscious Parker in his arms, he tilted the boy's head back, parting his lips wider as Venom's own jaws dropped open. Leaning forward, his jaws in the same permanent, fixed leer, he brought Parker close as his slimy tongue worked its way past those slack lips and deeper into Parker's mouth in the Symbiote's own makeshift version of a kiss. It was rough, oozing and unforgiving as it penetrated deeper.

He could taste Parker all around him.

It was….intoxicating.

Sadly, he had to pull back before it went any further, otherwise he might lose control of himself.

Pulling down the mask once more over Parker's nose, Venom clutched him possessively to his chest as he stood up. There would be time for more exploration of Parker in the future, he reminded himself. They should be thinking about what to do with him now, seeing as returning him to the scene of the crime wasn't the brightest idea. The best thing was probably to drop him off in that little alley next to that movie theater – maybe plunk him down on a pile of trash just to make Eddie feel a little better – and then start looking into this Sandman.

Somehow it seemed to Venom that the encounter between their Spider and this Man of Sand wouldn't be the last.

Spider-man tended to attract trouble and this Sandman could be a problem in the future.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

"He's been gone for like an hour or something," Gwen whispered to Mary Jane, turning away from the flickering screen. "I can't believe he ditched us."

Mary Jane chewed her lower lip. They were almost half way through the movie and Peter hadn't come back; he could be out being Spider-man, but he had been gone an awfully long time. At first she'd thought that him being Spider-man was the Coolest Thing _Ever_, but seeing him in action and seeing who he could be pitted against made her so worried these days that it was pretty much impossible to even watch a movie unless she knew Peter was safe and sound sitting next to her.

"I'll go look for him," Mary Jane whispered back. "Maybe he got lost," she added, trying to wiggle her way past knees and chairs into the aisle.

Gwen snorted none too delicately. "Whatever. If you see him, tell him he's a big fat jerk."

Mary Jane didn't start running until she left the auditorium. Once she was out, she ran up and down the length of the entire Loews complex, and finally came to a stop right near the glass doors to the street, out of breath. Peter definitely wasn't here. Still determined to keep looking, Mary Jane jogged past the usher at the door and started around the block, her heart thundering like hoof beats in her chest. She was contemplating searching down a particularly dark and narrow alley when she heard a familiar moan.

Deciding to err on the cautious side, she entered slowly and carefully, one hand on a broken pipe she found on the dirty ground. She had rounded a set of dumpsters and almost jumped in fright at the sight of Spider-man struggling to push himself into a sitting position.

"_Peter_!" she gasped, dropping the pipe with a clang.

In an instant she was at his side, a million questions on the tip of her tongue. Spider-man was slowly sitting up and coughing through the mask. The best he could do was weakly bat away her hands when she went to help him. Mary Jane ignored him and gently lifted up the mask to the bridge of his nose. A trickle of blood was working its way down from the corner of his mouth, but he seemed to be fine, if a little beat up.

"What happened?" Mary Jane asked. She helped him hunch over as he continued to cough.

Peter's voice was rough, as if he had a sore throat. "Had a…bit of a run in. Y'know how it is…I'm…I'm okay," he managed to get out before he dissolved into another fit of coughing.

"You're a mess, P – Spider-man," Mary Jane said. She managed to get him on his feet, one arm slung over her shoulder for support. "You don't look okay to me."

"_You_ try fighting Sand Dude the next time."

Okay, so maybe Peter wasn't _that_ bad off if he was still making stupid jokes.

Mary Jane wanted to cry but instead she managed a shaky smile. "Sand Dude?" she raised an eyebrow. From what she could see of Peter's face, he offered a tired grin, wiping away the blood trickle with the back of his gloved hand.

"Guy turns into sand, so I kept calling him Sand Dude. Best name ever."

"He can't seriously be called that."

"It's close enough, but man – ow! – man, he did put up a fight," Peter winced as he stood up and began trying to inspect his back. "I think they got away this time," and now the grin was gone, disgust at himself replacing it.

"You can't catch everyone, Tiger," said Mary Jane. She looked down, trying to say what she felt, "I-I think it's enough that you even try, you know? Most people would've turned back by now."

"Yeah, well...I guess I'm that stubborn. It's in the genes and all," Peter grunted. He motioned that they go deeper into the alley so they could have a bit more privacy. "I don't really think I'm in any shape to go finishing the movie with you guys, MJ. Sorry, but I really need some rest."

Mary Jane frowned. "I won't just leave you here."

"I can make it back. Just tell Gwen I'm sorry for being a big fat jerk."

Mary Jane watched as he disentangled himself from her and stood up, this time without staggering. Doubt played across her face. "Are you sure…?"

"Yeah. Look, I'll just catch a train and head home. I'll be fine…that's if I find my clothes, 'cause you know running around naked gets me arrested and all," Peter said, glancing around. He brightened when he spotted a bundle a bit farther back. "There they are."

Mary Jane went and came back with his clothes. He began peeling off the Spider-man costume and suddenly stopped, face reddening.

"Um…would you mind turning around for a second?"

"Oh!" Mary Jane jumped, coming to her senses, and blushed. She whirled around quickly, keeping her eyes pointedly straight ahead of her. Behind her came the sounds of rustling.

"Ugh, God. I smell like I took a swan dive into a dumpster," Peter muttered after taking an experimental sniff. He sounded hurt. "How come you didn't say anything?"

"I wasn't really paying attention."

"I claim dibs on the shower," Peter's voice was muffled as he shrugged into the shirt. "An awesomely long one."

"Your aunt doesn't mind?"

"Nah, she's okay so long as I don't do it every day," Peter said. "Okay, you can turn around now."

Mary Jane turned around hesitantly. Peter was sporting a spectacular bruise the size of a baseball on his cheek, and, for some reason, there were ugly red marks around his neck…but other than that he looked like the same Pete she was used to. "So? Passable?" he asked, modeling a fake pose.

"You look like Flash beat you up," Mary Jane said. "Again."

Peter smiled ruefully. "Wouldn't be the first time. I guess it's a good thing I've got this whole loser rep going around."

"Promise to be careful on the way home?"

This earned Mary Jane a typical Parker grin reserved only for trusted friends – lop-sided with just a hint of cockiness. "Always am. See you tomorrow."

Mary Jane watched as he leapt up, easily cleared her head by several feet, and began ascending the vertical wall until he disappeared over the edge and was simply _gone_. It always amazed her whenever he did stuff like that, especially when he seemed to give it no thought at all, as if climbing up walls was as commonplace as walking or breathing. It was still hard to even imagine Peter of all people as Spider-man – the images of Spider-man on TV kicking and punching his way through the likes of that man with those mechanical arms was just _unreal_, as if it was someone else and not her best friend behind the mask. She knew Peter's secret, but sometimes it was still hard actually accept it when it was right in front of her eyes.

Mary Jane turned around and headed back to Loews, taking it slow. She'd need time to figure out a good story to tell Gwen and she really wasn't looking forward to having to lie yet again.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Flint Marko took his time counting the payment for the robbery of that laboratory – they were paid in cash, 100 bills in neatly stacked bundles that filled several large crates to the top. He knew he was little more than an over-glorified thug right now, but that didn't mean he was going to trust his employer just because he happened to be one of the most influential men in New York. Sitting with his legs on the table and slouching a little, Flint methodically checked each bundle for counterfeits until he was satisfied they hadn't been cheated in any way. The other man sitting across from him was somehow squeezed into a chair that constantly groaned under his weight, looking ready to burst yet miraculously holding together.

This was the Kingpin.

A single man who had so much influence in this city that he continued to walk free, even when he had direct evidence of murder against him. On security tapes, no less!

Flint didn't trust him, but you had to at least respect a man with that much power. Give credit where credit was due and all that.

"I trust you find everything satisfactory," said William Fisk. He laced his meaty fingers together when Flint nodded. "I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised with your performance today."

"Thanks, Mr. Fisk," Flint grunted. He tossed the last bundle of money into the crates, snapping his fingers. Two of his men came forward, closed the lids down on the crates and lifted them out of the way. "I'm sure you know we got an unwanted guest at the last minute, though."

"Spider-man?" Fisk's voice was pleasant, cultured, but his face melted into a menacing frown.

"Yeah: I took care of him."

The Kingpin actually looked surprised, eyebrows shooting up. "Is that so?"

"I didn't get a chance t'finish him off, if that's what you're thinkin'," Flint shrugged. "Our little party got interrupted by this monster, might've been a mutant or somethin'," and Flint rattled off a curt description of the black man-shaped creature that had attacked them. "I lost some of my men out there 'cause of it."

"Unfortunate, that." Fisk leaned forward. The chair groaned under his immense bulk. Interest positively radiated out from him.

Flint knew how to play up interest like no other – one of the things one picked up when everyone thought they were smarter than you and the only way to ensure you got what you wanted was to capture and hold their attention. He hemmed and hawed, stalling as he idly picked at a loose thread sticking up from his jeans. "Unfortunate for them, good for those of us still alive. Less to have t'split, y'know?"

"Indeed."

"'Sides, they knew the risks. It might be much t'ask, but could you send their families a little somethin' for their help?"

"But of course."

"No point in mournin' over them, but I've got this reputation of takin' care of my men, y'know?

"A very understandable sentiment, Mr. Marko."

By now Fisk was leaning forward to the point where his arms were on the table between them. There was to be no more dancing about the subject of that black mutant now and Flint finally relented with a flourish of one arm, as if he was sleepy and stretching. "Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah," he gave a crooked grin. "That thing that attacked us today. _Crazy_ shit, never saw anythin' move like it before. Pardon my French, but even _I_ had some trouble fightin' the fucker off."

The corners of Fisk's mouth twitched but he said nothing.

"Just thought I'd give you the heads up," Flint said, and made as if he was ready to leave and go on his merry way.

"…Just a minute, Mr. Marko."

_Right on cue. _

Flint made a show of sitting down reluctantly. "I thought our business was done…unless you'd like to continue t'use our services?"

"I might have some other engagements for you and your…friends," Fisk said. He motioned to one of the attendants standing in the light coming in through the skyscraper's windows. She poured the two men each a glass of some obscenely expensive wine Flint didn't even know the name of. "I must admit you sparked my curiosity as to this black beast of yours. It sounds rather intriguing. I would like to hear more about it and your encounter with Spider-man; over dinner, perhaps?"

A slow smile crept over Flint's craggy face.

"Sure, why not?" he finally took his legs off the table. "I'm dyin' for a good steak."

Fisk shared the smile. It made his eyes crinkle up and reminded Flint of a pig…a pig who could probably snap him in half with his bare hands if he didn't have that whole sand thing going on. "Incidentally, I happen to know of a very good place with some of the finest steaks in New York state."

"Sounds like my kinda place."

"I believe only a man of your caliber would appreciate it," Fisk said. He sipped the wine glass. "I look forward to tonight."

Flint smirked. "Thank you, Mr. Fisk."

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(Later the same night)

"He's still asleep, girls."

Aunt May's voice.

Gwen huffed, a muffled sound just beyond his closed door. "When he wakes up, we seriously need to talk."

"Let's eat dinner," said Mary Jane. "Come on, he didn't do this on purpose – he really wanted to watch that movie together, remember?"

"…Yeah," Gwen muttered, her voice fading as they trooped downstairs, words becoming inaudible. "…Still…hate…say it…flakes out all the time…"

And then nothing, only silence once more.

Peter tossed in his bed, drifting back to sleep once more. Even through the fading haze of awareness, he could feel his whole body aching. His bruised cheek and throat hurt the most, followed by the pain in his lower back. Eyes still closed, the sixteen year-old settled deeper into the thick comforters with a quiet sigh, his body working furiously to heal the damage from that last fight as his mind went elsewhere.

_Today he felt good. More than good even – he'd just freed himself of that symbiote thing and spent the better half of the next day web slinging around Queens for no good reason other than he _felt like it_. It was extremely relaxing; one of the rare times where Peter could look back and realize that despite all the crap he went through on a daily basis, he still had a great deal of that special brand of Parker Luck on his side. He still had Aunt May, Mary Jane and now Gwen in his life. He was alive and one hundred percent alien-free. Today was a damn good day and Peter felt so happy he found himself almost tempted to start hugging random people on the street. _

_Peter approached the Queensboro_ _Bridge_ _around late afternoon. He felt great as he sailed through the metal struts with the ease of a practiced acrobat, his body sliding and tumbling in mid-air, unconcerned that he might miscalculate and bash his head into the bridge. _

_He was extending his hand to shoot another line of webbing when suddenly something latched onto his wrist with bone-crushing force. _

_Startled, breath catching, Peter looked up but couldn't see anything… just a shapeless, twisting mass of black which has sprouted a set of claws currently wrapped around his arm. Suddenly aware that his great day just took a massive 180, Peter flipped his leg up, intending to deliver a resounding kick and knock off Whatever It Was right off of him. Another set of claws sprouted and easily caught the kick, leaving Peter in an exceedingly awkward position._

_A set of fangs and dead eyes began emerging from the black ooze-mass holding him dangling upside down over the racing traffic lanes below. _

"_You thought you escaped, did you?"_

_The claws tightened around his ankle and wrist. The shapeless mass above him gave a sickening laugh. Countless cars and buses whizzed underneath the two with a thundering of tires and horns. Something wet – a tongue? – abruptly flicked out and licked him, running up the entire length of his face with relish._

"_You'll see us everywhere, Peter _Parker

_And then Peter found himself dropping, only this time he was in his street clothes, his web shooters gone and nothing in reach to latch onto, with a rather ominous looking semi heading in his direction – _

Peter bolted upright with a strangled gasp, his heart thundering in his chest and his ears ringing. He stared forward without seeing at first, and only gradually did he realize just where he was exactly - currently sitting upside down on the ceiling, with no idea how he got there. Reflex, probably. Shaken, he remained where he was on the ceiling, his arms hugging himself. What was _that_ all about? He only remembered bits and pieces of the dream, but it gave him a _serious_ case of the creeps.

_Man…I need a break… _

The nightmares seemed to be part and parcel of the whole Spidey package, although the last time he had one this bad, it'd been right after the confrontation with Harry's dad…when MJ almost died after taking a forced dive off the Queensboro Bridge. He had nightmares for _months_ afterward, and he couldn't imagine how much worst it must've been for his best friend. Deciding that what he needed most was some fresh air, Peter crept along the ceiling and peeked out through the crack in the door. The lights were out in the house, so everyone was probably asleep.

Careful to be as stealthy as he could, Peter made his way to the window and slid it open just enough to slip out. He made it to the shingled roof easily and took a seat next to the chimney, drawing his bare legs up to his chest and resting his chin on his knees, feeling the night breeze tousling his hair. Cars honked in the distance, the sky a deep orange-violet from the sheer amount of street lights. Hardly quiet, but it was all comfortable white noise for someone who grew up with it. Perfect. He really needed some me-time to think.

_What did I get myself into?_ Peter tilted his head so that his cheek rested on one knee, arms hooked around his legs. He had all these crazy, freaky powers but in the end he was only a kid running around in tights. It was easier to ignore the fact when he was actually doing his job as Spider-man, but tonight – as simply Peter Parker – he was all too aware that he was ill-prepared for all this. At least the X-Men and the Ultimates had each other and were actually _adults_. He was just a kid who'd barely turned sixteen the other month. He certainly didn't feel sixteen.

Sometimes it felt like he bit off more than he could chew. Every day, all day, fearing for his family and friends, paranoid that somehow someone would put two and two together and figure out his little secret. Sometimes he seriously considered quitting.

But then he'd save someone from, say, a mugging…the gratitude always, always without fail overwhelmed him, even if it was rare and far between to have someone actually stick around to thank him these days.

Spider-man was a part of him forever, no matter how much he doubted himself.

_Uncle Ben would probably just say doubting doesn't get you anywhere but backwards_. Peter had to smile a little at this, feeling the old knot in his stomach forming at the thought of Ben. His uncle had a blunt way with words, yet somehow always encouraged Peter to always improve himself and keep trying despite the stacked odds. _Use that stubborn streak of yours_, Uncle Ben said once. _You can wallow in guilt, Peter, or you can keep on climbing to the top._ Then again, that had been a pep-talk after Peter came back after a thorough humiliation at Flash's hands. _Well, not much has changed, I guess_, Peter thought wryly. _I still get my share of Atomic Wedgies._

Although…Peter had to admit the fare he went up against these days were about a million plus one times worse than Flash. A beat down from someone like Doc Ock was a hella lot higher on the Pain O' Meter than anything Flash or Kong could ever cook up.

So what if he had nightmares? He had to buck up and ignore them: he couldn't hide under his blankets just because he kept waking up in a cold sweat. Feeling a bit better already, Peter got to his feet, feeling the roughness of the wooden shingles underneath his toes. Rather than feeling sorry for himself, he really should be trying to learn more about this Sandman, as well as trying to figure out just who saved his butt earlier in the day.

Unaware of the fact he was being watched, Peter swung himself back into his bedroom and drew the curtains…

A block away from the Parker residence, Eddie Brock turned and headed north. Rain threatened to spill from the looming clouds overhead, and the black turtleneck he wore shifted into a black, knee length rain coat. The Symbiote was wide awake – it always was at the latest hours – and now it was ready to hunt for a different kind of prey than their Spider.

_He seems to be healing nicely_, the Other remarked.

"Yeah," Eddie grunted. "Parker got a lucky break today."

_We can't let him encounter that Man of Sand again._

"No, we can't."

The Symbiote might have had millennia of experience under its belt, but it didn't have much of a clue how to go looking after this Sandman here on Earth. If anything, the technology on Earth was just too downright mind-bogglingly _inferior_ for it comprehend, and it expected their host to get the job done if it couldn't do it itself. It would prefer to just rip apart the city and flush the irritating human out, but that would draw too much attention. Besides, Eddie Brock was a former reporter, one of the best of his class. If there was one thing he knew for certain he could do well, it was a little bit of actual investigation.

For once the Symbiote was ready to rely on its host instead of the other way around.

First they had to have a plan. Eddie needed access to all kinds of criminal records, among other things, and for once breaking and entering wouldn't cut it. He'd need this access for an extended amount of time – without having to dodge cops and deal with heightened security – which would require the legal approach. Unfortunately the archives at the Daily Bugle weren't an option (no thanks to Parker), and he tried to think of how he could get himself hired quickly. He knew all kinds of dirty little juicy secrets about the Bugle and its staff. Such would be a big selling point if he moseyed himself over to one of the Bugle's rivals….

Eddie knew _just_ the place.

The Daily Globe was one of the Bugle's biggest competitors, and had a decidedly unsavory reputation for luring in employees from other papers through less than legal ways. Actually, they had been making longing eyes in his direction for a while, before Parker even came into the picture, but at the time Eddie remained (stupidly) loyal to the Bugle and Jameson. He assumed wrongly that his experience and loyalty would actually mean something, _not_ get thrown back into his face as if all those dedicated years meant nothing.

As he decided against simply web-slinging his way back to Manhattan – had to start getting used to "normal" – and instead hailed down a taxi, Eddie felt a private smile surfacing. He had a feeling the Daily Globe would be more than happy to hire him. Hell, they had been gunning for him to join them for several _months_.

There was that. And he hated to admit it, but a part of him really missed the days of having real work. It couldn't hurt that he'd actually enjoy himself working as a journalist again, as a side bonus. After all, the whole reason he'd wanted to become a journalist in the first place was this whole desire to protect innocents, and he figured the Daily Bugle was more respectable on that note than the Globe. Working again as a journalist though could have a problem: there was a definite chance he'd run into Parker in between assignments and searching the archives for this Sandman. They were pretty sure that Parker didn't know what happened to them after their last encounter. It was possible he thought Venom buggered out of town or maybe died in a corner somewhere, but there was really no way of knowing for certain.

_If we encounter him in this little disguise, he won't do anything, _the Symbiote would have shrugged if it could.

Good point. Their Spider would definitely recognize them, but in such settings he wouldn't dare think of picking a fight with Eddie, not when there were so many people who could get hurt. Eddie wasn't sure how he planned to react when they finally met face to face again. Sneering contempt? Disdain? Righteous anger? Or maybe just play it cool as if he didn't recognize the boy? Well, he still had time. No sense in getting ahead of himself. Eddie slid into the waiting cab.

The taxi cabbie leaned over and glanced at him through the grate separating them, a withering cigarette dangling in his grizzled mouth. Smoke wafted about the confines of the taxi cab, and Eddie could feel the symbiote giving the slightest of repulsed shudders.

"Late night, eh?"

"You could say that," Eddie replied. He offered a tired grin. "Same goes for you."

The cabbie snorted. "Hey, it pays the bills. Tired as hell, but you gotta do what you gotta do."

"You said it."

"So, where to?"

Eddie rattled off an address. The cabbie raised an eyebrow, startled. "That's pretty far, man. You know that's gonna rack up, right?"

"I know," Eddie settled back against the seat. Mumbling to himself, the cabbie turned around and started up the taxi, working his way onto the main streets and easing his way across the Queensboro Bridge.

Eddie gazed out the window. Moonlight glistened off the water underneath them. From here it looked serene and gentle, despite the fact it was probably polluted to hell and back with who knew what; he found himself fixating on the way the silver slivers of light played across the ways hundreds of feet below. He usually didn't travel much without reason, but maybe he could afford to web-sling under the bridge and take a breather. At the very least, keeping physically busy would help with that longing, possessive ache he always got thinking of Parker…

At least he had tomorrow to look forward to. His introduction to the Daily Globe was bound to be entertaining once Jameson found out about his defection.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Gwen was giving him evil eyes; Peter just _knew_ it. He had gotten really good at sensing that kind of thing lately and he didn't need his spider-sense to know _someone_ was pissed off at him, to put it mildly. When the teacher turned her back on the class to write on the board, Mary Jane quickly tossed him a note, folded up in the shape of some kind of maladjusted fish (her attempt at origami). When Peter managed to unfold it, he quickly scanned through the shorthand, scribbled for easiness to read than any worry for spelling. The note said:

_Sad U Had Accident. Gwen thinks U ditched on purpose. Gwen PO_'_d: UBig Fat Jerk 2 her. Watch ur_ _bak k?_

By the time the teacher turned around, the note disappeared into his book. Great. Gwen was still pissed off at him. Peter was going to have to be careful and make sure he had a better story ready. That or at least apologize up a storm. Sometimes he wished he could just tell Gwen why he kept flaking off all the time, but he knew such a thing wasn't possible. What would he say? _Gee, Gwen, sorry I couldn't finish the movie: I was too busy swinging around in my Spider-jammies and oh yeah, I didn't kill your dad for the last time? _Peter snorted mentally. Yeah. Right. _That_ would go over really well, wouldn't it?

The moment they got out of class, Peter found himself getting pulled aside by Gwen. The blonde girl tugged him toward the lockers, with Mary Jane shooting him a sympathetic look. _Good luck_, she mouthed, before heading toward the cafeteria. From the frown on Gwen's face, Peter decided he was going to need whatever luck he could get.

"Peter, what the goddamn hell happened yesterday?" Gwen demanded hotly, her hands on her hips, bangles jingling with the movement.

Peter couldn't meet her eyes. "Look, I know what you're thinking. I didn't ditch you guys, okay?"

"Could've fooled me," Gwen retorted.

"Why would I want to ditch you?" Peter asked. "I really did want to see that movie together."

"Right…"

Peter could tell this wasn't working. Better get to that explanation quick. "MJ was right – I did have a bit of an accident. I tripped and…um…hurt myself," Peter lied, trying to think. "I didn't feel too well after it, so I had to go home."

"How did you trip on your _face_? It looked like someone slugged you."

Peter stuttered, face reddening. He couldn't think of anything to say, not with Gwen fixing that evil eye on him at point blank range and waiting impatiently for a better explanation. It didn't look good. And then a pair of life-savers finally arrived – Flash and Kong happened to round the corner and stopped short at the sight of Peter practically pinned against the locker by Gwen. For once in his life, Peter was actually glad to see the two. Flash's face instantly broke out into one of those little smug grins:

"Lover's fight?" he grinned, sauntering up. "Not surprised Parker's the pussy in the relationship. You're such a damn _girl_."

Gwen flared up, looking ready to spit fire. "You got a problem with girls, retard?"

"Not all of them," Flash said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I don't know what you see in this lame ass loser, Gwen."

"This 'lame ass loser' happens to be my _friend_," Gwen glared. "So shut the hell up!"

"Oh thanks," Peter muttered. "I think."

Flash ignored him, eyes still on Gwen. "Or what? You'll threaten to gut me like a pig like you threatened Kong?"

"That wasn't cool," Kong added. "Seriously."

"Just leave us alone," Gwen actually _snarled_. "Or you'll see how it feels to be on the bullying end."

"Oooh, scary!" Flash didn't even pretend to be scared. "Better watch it, Gwen. Don't want you getting expelled, do we?"

Flash turned to Peter, who was busy making himself look as utterly defenseless, terrified, and ultimately appealing a nerd target as possible. If there was a time he needed Flash to be…well, _Flash_, it was right now. The jock didn't disappoint. He smirked, noticing the still healing bruise on Peter's cheek and made a punching motion in his hand. In the school's weird, unofficial Bully Code (there actually was one; most of the big and small bullies tended to be pretty constant with it, amazingly enough), that meant Peter better watch out for some Stealth Purple Nurples...but since Gwen was new to the school, she mistook it for something else entirely. The blonde girl looked ready to explode, almost shaking in fury.

Kong, noticing the warning signs, elbowed Flash in the side.

"Whatever, man," Kong said, practically pushing Flash toward the cafeteria and out of the line of fire. "Have fun with your girl problems, Parker."

Gwen rounded on Peter, her cheeks still flushed. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"What?"

"Why did you make up that retarded story about you tripping?" Gwen glared, but her evil eye had lost most of its steam, softening considerably. She gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. "If Flash tries to beat you up again, I'd be more than happy to sock him in the face for you."

It struck Peter as extremely ironic that _he_ of all people was getting offered Bully Protection.

"I don't think you need to do that –" he started.

"– more like _want_ to – "

"-I'll be okay," Peter finished. "Look, I didn't want to cause trouble and get everyone worried." Okay, that part was true, so he didn't feel too guilty about this half-lie. At least he managed to keep a straight face. "Let's just drop this, okay?"

"I meant what I said," Gwen said. Her expression softened; the irritation earlier had pretty much deflated and fizzled away. "I swear, those idiots stalk you or something. I don't want to eat in the same room with those two," she said suddenly and steered him away to the outside benches and tables. Peter was absolutely starving, but he followed anyway, sitting down across from Gwen as she composed herself.

"I…I know I don't exactly fit in here," Gwen started. She looked down and Peter knew she was recalling that time he'd found her crying in a dumpster. "Having you and MJ as friends really means a lot to me….and I-I got really mad when I thought you blew us off. Maybe I take things too seriously sometimes…"

"Friends are important," Peter said. He awkwardly reached out and gave Gwen's folded hands on the table a comforting pat, not knowing what else to do. "I'm so sorry about yesterday, Gwen. I really wish I could make it up to you."

Gwen offered him a tired smile. "You could stop getting beat up. Try standing up against Flash for a change."

_If I stood up to him, I'd probably break a few of his bones – and not even on purpose!_ "Um…violence really isn't my thing," Peter said quickly.

"I know this is going to sound a bit weird," Gwen said quietly. "But I think of you, your aunt and MJ like you're my family. Ever since Dad was murdered," anger and sadness warred for dominance in her voice, "ever since Dad was murdered, you guys have been like-like an anchor, y'know? So it's really important what you guys think and stuff."

Peter nodded, feeling like he should be kicking himself. Gwen still thought Spider-man killed Captain Stacy, even though the confrontation between the two versions of Spider-man was all over the news later. Peter felt it was his fault for not getting their in time to be of much help, except for capturing the Fake Spider-man. Still, the important thing was that Gwen was safe and felt like she fit in their little group. Time to try cheering her up:

"We'll always be there for you, no matter what," Peter offered a smile. "Come on, let's get something eat, okay?"

Gwen got up. "Thanks for listening, Peter."

The next couple of days were pretty uneventful for Peter after that.

A week passed.

The bruises from that fight with Sandman faded, Gwen wasn't pissed off at him, it rained for three days straight so far, and Flash and Kong decided they had better things to do then attempt those promised Purple Nurples any time soon. He kept running late for work at the Daily Bugle, but Jameson seemed more concerned with finding out about this alleged Sandman mutant than ripping Peter a new one. It was as a soggy, miserably gray Thursday. Web-slinging his way toward Times Square proved to be surprisingly crime-free.

Wet, but crime free.

Peter landed on the roof of the Bugle's tower, shrugging out of his backpack and ducking into the roof access door just long enough to realize he couldn't throw his normal clothing over a sopping wet costume. _Okay, Me, remind Myself to waterproof this thing._ He'd have to spend a couple of minutes trying to pass the costume under the bathroom hand dryers before sitting down to work on the Bugle's web page today. Grumbling to himself, Peter trooped down the stairs and darted into the nearest bathroom he could find. By the time he surfaced – this time in a respectable pair of jeans and a light brown shirt – and made his way to Jonah Jameson's office, he knew he was probably in trouble.

"You're almost half an hour late, Peter," Robbie said in disapproval, intercepting him. He glanced toward the main office: Jameson was in the middle of some kind of heated conversation on the phone, chewing on his cigar and looking ready to bite it in half. "I'd tell you to stay clear of Jonah, but I need you to give these," Robbie held up a sheaf of papers, "to him."

Peter gingerly took the pile. Robbie was nowhere near as explosive as J.J could be, but that didn't mean he was a pushover. He wasn't too happy about Peter constantly coming in late and this was his own way of putting him somewhere where he could get a good verbal butt-kicking (courtesy of Jameson) without actually reprimanding him in person. It wasn't the most confrontational approach, but it worked. Well, Peter supposed he earned it after all: he hadn't been exactly displaying the best work ethics for the past week and he couldn't even blame it – much – on his activities as Spider-man.

He knocked gingerly on the door. Jameson looked up, fixed the sixteen year-old with the usual fierce glare and then motioned him in impatiently. _Sit_, he motioned, stabbing a finger at one of the unoccupied chairs and abruptly turned away, still on the phone. Cigar smoke wafted into the air in wisps as Peter sat down, holding the papers in his lap and trying to steel himself for the inevitable confrontation. He only listened to Jameson's conversation with half an ear.

The papers in his lap were starting to look extremely interesting when Jameson suddenly exploded on the phone. Peter almost fell off his seat in surprise.

"_That's utter bullshit_!" Jameson bellowed into the phone. "You said he left town, and _now_ you're telling me they got him at the Daily-Fucking-_Globe_!"

A brief moment of silence as the voice on the other end replied. Forgetting entirely about the papers in his lap, Peter looked up. Jameson chewed on the cigar with renewed vigor, clenching it between his teeth, standing to the side, his restless pacing forgotten.

"He's pissed off, that's what," said Jameson. "I bet he thinks he'll get revenge by doing this. He used to be a lot more professional about that kind of bullshit."

More silence.

"Of course I know how the Globe works. Their bastards keep trying to steal my goddamn employees all the goddamn time. Every month it's the same thing…yes … yes, I know."

_Who's he talking about?_ Peter wondered. Whoever it was, it pissed off Jameson badly. Peter had a feeling he'd be taking a lot more flak than expected once his boss finished the phone call.

"No…no, I don't think so. They probably got to him months ago…who knows, he could've been planning this even before that whole scandal with – _what_?"

The person on the other end paused and then repeated whatever they just said. Jameson let out a barking, sarcastic laugh.

"If I find him in my office, I'll get security on his ass so fast he won't even know how he got out of the damn building," Jameson growled around the smoldering cigar. "There's got to be a way to find out what he's up to..."

A question from the other end of the line.

"I trust Brock about as far as I can throw him."

Peter froze.

The sheaf of papers slid out of his hands and slithered out onto the carpet, forgotten.

**  
To be continued**  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

I actually updated, yay.

Anyway, I know this part wasn't uber-slashy...or even meriting the R rating. I prefer plot first and pairings next, so I guess. Rather build up to any sexual scenes than just have them in there for no reason.. Just personal preference and all. If there's anything explicit, it'll probably be at AFF under the same name. I'll usually say if there's any difference between this and the AFF version, but so far there hasn't been any difference (sorry).

Thanks for reading.


	5. Hunters and Feeding Habits

**Black Substenance**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: Naturally I don't own Spider-man.  
**Author Notes**: Basically it's mostly Ultimate Spider-man universe except Venom's origins are the symbiote and the shuttle crash. Again, plot first, pairings next. This is mostly a mixing of 616 and Ultimateverse. Slashyish, you have been warned. Not fluffy.

_Italics_ for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote  
**Archive**: Sure, just ask.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X  
Black Sustenance  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(Hunters and Feeding Habits)

"I trust Brock about as far as I can throw him."

Peter Parker sat frozen to the spot.

Eddie Brock.

_Venom_.

_Oh…Oh _shit

Not the most coherent thing to think, but that was all he could manage, staring forward without quite seeing, feeling the blood drain from his cheeks as what Jonah Jameson just said sunk in its entirety. Icy cold fear closed in around the teenager. His spider-sense was useless against Brock; Brock could be anywhere, absolutely _anywhere_ and Peter wouldn't know until it was probably too late. Brock could even be in the building _right now_ and there was no way to know until he came in kicking the doors down and gunning for blood. Peter had to force himself to remain in his chair and not bolt out of the door right there and then.

Jameson was still on the phone during this, stopped facing out toward one of the expansive glass windows, a hand on his hip and completely oblivious to the danger.

"We're going to need damage control on this," he was saying. "Check our records, make sure everything's clean like it should be in the first place…yes, I _know_ the Globe's going to have a field day with this. Look – no, _no_ – just get on it. _Now_!"

Jameson hung up and slammed the phone into its cradle with a resounding _crack_; it was only by sheer luck that the thing didn't break into pieces. He stood for a long minute glaring daggers at it, chewing vigorously on the end of the lit cigar and puffing clouds of smoke as he tried to collect himself. "Can't believe he went and actually did it," the head of the Daily Bugle muttered. "Fucking asshole."

He suddenly remembered Peter. "Well?" he snapped, rounding on the sixteen year-old. "Don't stand there with your mouth open. Don't tell me those are Robbie's reports you're stepping on."

The publisher stomped over, took a closer look at the brunette and huffed. "You sick or something, Parker?" Jameson grunted. The fierce expression softened the slightest bit, only to harden once more. "Get out of my office before you start throwing up all over my floor. Go home."

The boy, looking like all the blood had drained from his face, didn't move.

"Go on, _get_!"

Peter scuttled out. As the door banged open, Jameson bent down with a tired grumble of annoyance, balancing himself with one hand on a knee, and slowly picked up the sheaf of papers scattered around the chair. When he finally came up with the mess in the barest semblance of order, he found Robbie leaning against the doorframe of his office, arms folded across his chest.

"What was that about, Jonah?" Robbie asked, raising an eyebrow. "That was either the fastest chew-out I've ever seen you give Peter…or something's on your mind."

Jameson began to reshuffle the papers, putting them back into order. "I know you heard me."

The other man sighed. "You _were_ getting pretty loud this time," he admitted, "but I didn't get the whole story."

"It's Brock," Jameson growled. He didn't even glance at the papers he'd picked up, instead tossing them onto his desk and slouching down behind it, his chair squeaking as he settled down. Robbie quietly closed the door behind him and took a seat on the edge of the desk. "He went and got himself hired by the Globe. The fucking _Globe_."

"Ouch."

"Ouch doesn't even begin to cover it."

Robbie sighed. "So what now?"

"So far nothing from the Globe – I had Betty run out and get me a copy soon as I heard the rumor, but I didn't see anything about us. Yet," Jameson scowled. "I thought Brock would've acted faster on this; he could've easily gotten in something before the news ever reached me…I just don't get it. Or him."

"What about Peter?" Robbie asked.

"What about him?"

"Well," Robbie started delicately, "there is a chance Brock might have a grudge against him too, since he _did_ have a part in getting him let go."

"Fired," Jameson corrected him. "He got _fired_. 'Let go' is just dancing around the fact he got fired. End of story."

"Alright, fired. Either way, the fact is, we don't know what he's thinking right now," Robbie said. "He was pretty upset that time, remember? Especially at Peter."

The editor of the Daily Bugle sat up a little straighter. "You think he'd come after Parker?"

"I'm just saying we don't know for certain _what_ he wants. For all we know, he could threaten to spill everything unless we let Peter go," Robbie frowned. "Brock had a lot going wrong for him when he was fired. He…might not be in the most stable of mindsets. The thing is we _don't_ know what he's planning. I think we should take that into account."

Jameson went silent, mulling this over, his chin jutted out stubbornly.

"What do you think we should do, Robbie?"

"Play it safe. Keep an eye on Peter; I know you planned to have him start getting sent out on assignments with Ulrich, but I think it'd probably be best if none of those were near anything the Globe would cover at the same time."

Jameson scowled at this. He glared out the window. "I can't believe we actually have to worry about this bullshit," he said angrily. "Maybe it'd be easier to just let Parker go for now…"

"You want to fire _Peter_?" Robbie stiffened in surprise.

"Firing's permanent. Parker does a good job…sometimes," said Jameson gruffly. "I'd rather he come back and work with us again, but you didn't hear it from me. In fact, I better not hear _any_ of this leaking out to the kid, am I clear? I'm not going to let him go unless I've got a damn good, solid reason to believe he's endangered."

Robbie almost smiled. "My lips are sealed."

"They damn well better be."

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Peter Parker didn't like this one bit. Ever since he'd heard about Brock being back in town, he'd gotten paranoid – okay, so he was already paranoid, so more paranoid than usual – and he kept looking over his shoulder even as he left the Daily Bugle. Should he even risk web-slinging his way home? What if Brock was waiting for him to go swinging by? Maybe the subway would be safer…but then again, it'd make for something even worse if Brock caught him there – he'd be stuck underground and even more civilians might get hurt.

If Peter didn't get gray hairs from this whole mess, he was going to be _very_ surprised.

He just didn't get it, he reflected as he quickly changed into his Spider-man outfit. Just didn't get it at all. What did Brock want? Peter found it hard to believe that he just wanted to work an honest living again as a journalist – somehow getting fired from the Daily Bugle had been the last straw and something flipped a switch inside the older man. Like some kind of Crazy Switch or something. He still felt bad about pretty much getting Brock fired, but feeling guilty didn't mean he could let Brock get away with hurting innocents.

Swinging past the Daily Bugle and headed back to Queens, Spider-man had to wonder just how much of Eddie Brock was still left. He remembered all too well how it felt to have his own sense of self seem to melt away, being eaten and absorbed by the symbiote, and he'd actually been trying to fight off the alien at the time. Maybe the Brock he knew was gone by now, replaced only with that…that _thing_ calling itself "Venom".

Guilty. That's what he felt. That and a certain amount of pity.

It was his fault. _He_ created Venom. And now the people he cared about were all in danger because Venom knew _everything_ about Peter Parker. And he…he knew absolutely nothing about Venom. No idea how Brock and the symbiote thought together, how they felt together, or even much of either's history. Nothing aside from the fact that they were pretty pissed off at both Peter Parker and Spider-man, and how utterly convenient it was that both were one and the same.

The priority was to get home. Make sure his family and friends were alright, make sure they were safe, and make sure Brock hadn't paid a visit. Then he could try figuring out how to deal with this…

Spider-man was so preoccupied with the news of Brock that he swung right past the glint of binoculars without even noticing them. The woman behind the binoculars tracked the blue and red outfit of the superhero, red lips set in a thin line of concentration, until he vanished around a corner, before lifting up her gloved hand and speaking into the headset.

"Spider-man sighted," she said calmly into the mouth piece. "Going north, northwest, I'm estimating he's traveling somewhere between thirty, forty miles per hour. Looks like he's in a hurry. Do you want me to pursue and engage subject?"

The headset buzzed on the other end. "_No. Spider-man's not the primary target; that black mutant from before is_. _Pursue, but do not engage. Repeat. Do not engage_."

The woman sighed.

"_You're not being paid to engage the subject. Marko is."_

"He's just a thug," the woman muttered in distaste, flipping back a sheet of silver hair over her shoulder as she tucked the binoculars back into her belt. Today she dressed conservatively, wearing a form-fitting outfit that wouldn't restrict movement, but would also keep her arms, legs, and body well protected. She had been a mercenary for as long as she could remember; playing dress up and running around in skimpy little outfits was good if you wanted to look uselessly pretty and show off, but Silver Sablinovia was here for a job and that meant playing it safe, not playing it pretty.

"_Silver Sable, this is still _his _idea and _his _operation, even if the Kingpin is backing it and your Wild Pack_," replied the voice into her ear. "_Marko will engage Spider-man. That is all. Move out."_

This wasn't one of her better jobs, Silver Sable thought as she made her way down from the rooftop and toward the waiting van parked in the alley. One of her operatives held open the door for her and she slid in as they went in pursuit along the streets of Manhattan, dodging traffic and overzealous taxis as she began running over the arsenal they had at their disposal. This whole job just didn't smell right. She had heard a select little about this black mutant of Marko's, but she wasn't entirely sure that attacking Spider-man would bring him out in the open. She liked it even less that they didn't know anything about this beast. Worse was the fact they were working on practically little intel….

Her briefing had been short. Too short. It basically consisted of:

1). Locate Spider-man.  
2). Relay location to contact.  
3). Pursue.  
4). Subdue real target – UniRegM (Unidentified Unregistered Mutant - URM).  
5). Turn sedated target over to Flint Marko (nothing about what to do with _Spider-man_, who she was sure wouldn't take all of this sitting down).

In other words, they were winging it. Silver Sable disapproved of this utter lack of any real planning. Marko might work like that, but she liked to do a job and _do it right_, and she didn't take chances with what she was taking to this confrontation. Her small selected team from Wild Pack had enough sedatives, prototype tranquilizers and firepower to take down Spider-man several times over, although Marko had assured her that this black mutant of his was far stronger. They were to take this beast alive.

Silver Sable made sure to bring enough to blow it sky high anyway.

Just in case.

Well, it could always be worse. She heard Kingpin's first choice was that lunatic mercenary calling himself "Deadpool", but unfortunately it seemed he was…busy; which was probably for the better because from what'd she heard about Deadpool, the man was just downright _insane_. Certifiably crazy. _No_ sense of professionalism from what she'd read up on his previous missions. No sense of teamwork and she wouldn't be at all surprised if they put his picture next to the definitions for _unreliable_ and _unpredictable_ in a dictionary someday. With Deadpool, you'd be ensured your target would end up dead. That, and any and all bystanders, whether intentionally or just for kicks. Silver Sable had to admit she was relieved to know that Kingpin came to her next. At least _she_ was competent and didn't treat jobs like sport.

Still. Deadpool was a potential, extremely dangerous competitor. Even if he hadn't replied to the offer, for all she knew he could be making his way down here right this very minute. Wild Pack couldn't afford to make any mistakes and offer an opening for him; despite this ridiculous job, they'd follow it to the letter and get this black mutant Kingpin so very much wanted without letting that lunatic mercenary get a chance.

But...she refused to lose her whole team on account of useless intel. If these were the kind of jobs Kingpin offered, sacrificing mercenaries carelessly as if they were his typical pawns, then she'd even be willing to step aside for this Deadpool character…if it came to that. She hoped it wouldn't.

"You have a lock on Spider-man?" Silver Sable asked the driver of their van.

He nodded.

"Alright," Silver Sable turned around in her seat, facing the faceless men and women of Wild Pack. They all wore the same armor and body suits, their faces fully covered, gleaming HUD visors feeding in any useful data. Identifying them would be next to impossible. "I'll only go over this once. We're _not_ after Spider-man; I don't want to see anyone getting trigger-happy just because he'll be there. We're running this Flint Marko's way," she paused, made a little disdainful sniff, and then continued sternly. "He believes from his last encounter that attacking Spider-man might lure out this URM."

She counted heads again. Ten in this van, another ten in the next van, and thirteen more split up between smaller cars stationed around the area, not counting the drivers. More than enough. Not one of them moved, their covered faces tilted toward her attentively, HUDs glowing a gentle blue.

"We close in once this URM enters the immediate battle zone and engages Marko; the objective is to subdue it for capture and delivery to our employer," Silver Sable continued. "You all know the drill. I want to keep civilian casualties to a minimum; but most importantly we want to keep our own casualties to a minimum…." she trailed off. Now came the hard part. "In the unlikely scenario…if it looks like our teams are suffering over a seventy-five percent casualty rate, we break contract."

The driver next to her started a little in surprise at this but kept on steering them after Spider-man. They never broke contract before. They hadn't failed before either.

Silver Sable met the eyes of her fellow mercenaries: this little talk was being broadcast through her headset's mouthpiece to the other Wild Pack members in the other vehicles. "You heard me. We break contract. We shoot to kill. We can't collect if we're all dead and we can't take future jobs if we're six feet under. Be prepared to take positions once I get the call from Marko."

She turned back in her seat, collecting herself. Her team was more than capable, but there were just too many unknown factors here. Even thinking about failure left her a bad taste in her mouth. Silver Sable hated failure with a passion. She hated not knowing the odds.

But she loathed needless wasting of lives and resources even more.

If this Kingpin and his lapdog Flint Marko thought they could use Wild Pack as mere canon fodder, they were sorely mistaken.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

The phone call with Jonah Jameson was all over the Daily Globe's offices by now, despite the fact no one knew who contacted him. It didn't matter: Eddie Brock just couldn't stop grinning like an idiot. Today was good. No, today was better than good, it was _fantastic_ and he decided that he for once deserved to bask in it while it lasted.

When Eddie arrived at the Globe's offices, intending to immediately start digging around some more through the Archives about Sandman, he'd been met by what had to be at least half the staff wanting to clap him on the back or shake his hand, all the while exchanging knowing smirks or winks, with even a few enthusiastic thumbs up thrown in. He hadn't known exactly what the occasion was until his new boss beckoned him into his personal office, plunked him down in an overstuffed chair and they both listened to a recording of the phone call, with Jameson's tinny, enraged voice bouncing across the walls of the spacious office. They listened to it a second time and had just as good laugh as the first time around.

"I haven't ever seen Jonah this riled up," the head of the Daily Globe snickered, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "Oh man…I should be angry we've got a mole, but honestly? This was the funniest thing I've heard all week. Comedy gold-mine!"

Eddie only wished he could've seen the look on his former boss's face. Parker would have found out eventually, but hearing the good news at the _Bugle_ made it that much more precious. He didn't have time to be sitting here gloating, but it felt good. Really good.

"I only wish I could've been there," the other man was saying wistfully, echoing Eddie's thoughts. He shook his head, still grinning into his salt and pepper beard, tried to return to business, and failed completely at wiping the smirk away. "He'll definitely be on his toes now that we've got _you_."

"He really should've treated his employees better," Eddie replied glibly and nearly pitched face first into the desk when his new boss suddenly pounded him violently on the back, reeking of over-enthusiasm.

"Goddamn straight he should!" the Globe's publisher chortled heartily. "Really now, we've been trying to contact you for _months_ trying to offer you a better position, Brock - I'll never know why you let yourself get reamed by Jonah as long as you did."

The blonde suffered through the back-pounding, keeping the increasingly forced grin plastered on his face. He didn't really care for his new employer, but they needed access, they needed to be on this insignificant man's good side and therefore needed to keep grinning and bearing it until they got the information they wanted. Eddie put on an unconcerned air as he leaned a little away from the other man, hoping to avoid another of those annoying back pounds:

"Well, you heard old Jonah. He's biased. Tends to influence his staff. I…wasn't aware of how bad my position was at the Bugle until I got fired for no reason," Eddie said through his gritted teeth. "Saw what a chance you guys were giving me and decided to take it."

"I heard some new kid got you canned?"

Eddie scowled, his sunny mood dashed. "Basically."

"Don't go doing anything," the bearded publisher warned, suddenly serious. "I think it's bullshit too you got fired, but I won't be liable for something happening to that kid. What was he called? Parker?"

"I don't care about the kid," Eddie lied. The Other twitched in the back of his skull at the turn this conversation was taking - all this talk about their Spider made Eddie need servicing. _Again_. It was getting pathetic now. Last week the mere mention of Parker wouldn't make them suddenly lose all control. He steeled himself; he'd at least like to make it to a restroom before they started their newest enactment of Alien Masturbation Time right in front of his boss, "I'm just here for that second chance you guys offered."

That seemed to reassure the other man. He leaned forward. "I understand that and I'm glad you finally came to your senses. Still, you've only been feeding us bits and pieces of all the juicy stuff about our friends at the Bugle. You're being a tease."

Eddie pretended to blush. "It's not fun if it's all in one big chunk," he said, getting up. They couldn't hold out much longer. "You'll get the whole story sometime."

He left, managed to dodge past his new supporters – half of who seemed to think Eddie was the newest celebrity to be mobbed – and just barely made it into the handicapped bathroom, locking the doors behind him after a few seconds of desperate fumbling. It was nine by ten feet, plenty of room for their now twice daily servicing; he didn't have time to note much else, as he found himself already forcefully propped up against the sink by the symbiote, who seemed to be even more hungry for this kind of contact than he was, if that was possible. The black dress shirt and slacks Eddie had been wearing were already gone, vanishing back into his Other and leaving him straining in the cool, recycled air of the bathroom.

_My species tends to adopt sexual appetites similar to ours hosts the closer we become to mating. We need to service much, much more in order to try to delay the actual mating_, the symbiote purred, its annoyance stained by hunger. _Open up._

Completely nude, Eddie obediently spread his legs wide open as he was hoisted up onto a half sitting position on the icy-cold surface of the sink. It managed to hold their combined weight, miraculously, although the stupid faucet was digging painfully into his back. He tried shifting to the side, only to get the damn thing jammed into his ribs now, and then promptly forgot about the faucet entirely as the Other immediately began its servicing of its host with more energy than he was accustomed to. Eddie tilted his head back as one oozing tentacle of it, gleaming sleek and black in the restroom's harsh lights, crept across the planes of his taut stomach, inching quickly down toward his already erect member as another curled up to his neck, caressing his cheek.

It'd be easier if he could come up with a good Spider scenario, but as that faucet was still trying very hard to stab him between the ribs, his mind went blank, leaving just him and his Other and no fantasy of a writhing Parker to sweeten the deal.

His legs were prodded up none too gently by the impatient symbiote, spread to the point where Eddie couldn't help a whimper of pain that he bit down on at the last moment, the whimper turning into a throaty moan as the other began to curl around his shaft, another coming up under his thighs and working their way toward his entrance. The tentacles under his legs solidified, thickening as the blonde craned his head, trying not to bang it into the mirror like an idiot even as the symbiote rippled itself enthusiastically along his cock.

That was new, Eddie had time to think, startled, before he felt the newly formed tentacles pressing insistently between his legs, trying to force their way past his rim.

"H-hey!" he tried to push it away, feeling increasingly nervous. His other never went this solid during the servicing sessions, more liquid than anything else, and he was pretty sure it'd be pretty painful to get something that big getting poked up his ass.

_Doesn't matter. We need it. We _hunger _for it. _

Hold on. Hold a second! His Other couldn't just go _sticking_ stuff like that up there without –

_Yes we can, we _must_, our hungers, need to fulfill _this _one. You can heal._

In the symbiote's excitement, Eddie suddenly caught a glimpse of pure understanding as it let a few of its personal shields go down. Just a scattered series of images and sound, a scene of a different kind of feeding with puddles of blood and opened skulls, but he paled, forgetting about the mirror, forgetting about the facet in his ribs, forgetting how uncomfortable this position was, and forgetting entirely about what had to be a laughably huge alien dildo trying to penetrate him without any lube whatsoever.

Eddie felt the blood drain out of his face as he reeled in shock, and really _did_ hit that mirror with the back of his head this time as he scooted backward, as if he could get away from the horrible realization dawning on him. The blonde didn't even notice the stars bursting in front of his eyes or the pain blossoming.

All he knew was he felt sick. And horrified. Very, _very_ horrified.

"_Why didn't you tell me_?" he hissed in cold fury, shaken, trying to sit up and getting stabbed right in the side again by the faucet. "I thought we only had this one hunger!"

The symbiote kept trying to continue with the invasive servicing, evasively not replying, but Eddie managed to fend it off with almost inhuman strength born out of desperation. He couldn't do it forever, but he wanted answers. He wanted them _now_, especially after that brutal, inadvertent flash of memory his Other accidentally let slip…

_They were Venom. _

_They were Venom, but their host consciousness was asleep. He was just so, so very busy with trying to find everything they could about this Man of Sand that when he came to make a nest to sleep in, his brain activity always dropped like a rock the moment he would lie down. He was so exhausted that the symbiote had no difficulty at all controlling their joint body, hijacking it like a puppet on strings and merging completely into Venom for…what would Eddie Brock call it? Oh yes, a "night on the town" - even if this "New York_" _was pitifully small compared to the other civilization dwellings they had seen in the past. "Night on the town". Endearingly quaint._

_They were hungry. Starving, actually. And not in the bodily sense. The symbiote had taken care of _that _a few hours earlier, even if their host pretty much fell asleep right in the middle, amazingly enough. _

_No, this was a different kind of hunger. _

_An ancient hunger._

_They were Venom. _

_They were Venom and they hungered for fresh blood tonight._

_From what Venom gleaned from both host and Spider, the pits of downtown would be best for their hunting, with that area called "Queens_" _and "Forest Hills_" _out of the question. Their Spider most certainly didn't know about this particular feeding habit and if things went correctly, Eddie Brock would be none the wiser either. Venom remained inverted on the wall of the abandoned building, splayed claws punching holes in the brick, fanged snout pointed down in his permanent leer, slimy tongue lolling this way and that as he scoped out the area quickly, eager to get his stomach stated and back to the human-nest before his host consciousness woke up. _

_Several potential targets. Some didn't look too appetizing; toxins swam about them, probably from those chemicals these humans sometimes insisted on injecting, drinking or inhaling all the time in order to otherwise abuse their frail systems. _

_They needed a healthy one. Tainted ones were only if they were desperate – they gave Venom stomach cramps. _

_Look around. _

_There had to be a healthy one around here._

_There. _

_Sitting by the dock, hidden behind a grate of netted fish from the rest of the homeless humans wandering._

_Venom crouched and released, pushing off the side of the building and sailing silently through the night, landing neatly on the roof of the dock's old administration building and creeping along stealthily on all fours, soulless eyes concentrated forward. The hunger was unbearable now, like a burning itch everywhere: in his face, eyes, arms, heart, both conscious and unconscious minds, like insects crawling up under their skin. They had only a day before even the host would start feeling this new hunger, so tonight had to be the night they made a kill and fed._

_The prey tonight was a scrawny little human infant, dressed in rags with holes. Adolescent by Eddie Brock's terms, probably around fourteen, but to the symbiote, to the main awareness of Venom tonight, this one was a mere blip, a spot of insignificance that would never grow up to ever see what lay beyond. It wouldn't even make it out of this tiny planet's atmosphere, much less encounter even one of the vast number of civilizations stretched across the endless expanse of space. _

_The thought was strangely saddening. _

_For a brief, split second, Venom felt actual pity toward this creature sitting on the dock kicking its legs, oblivious to the predator watching only several yards away._

_He would make this fast. As…as an apology of sorts. Just what for, Venom wasn't sure, seeing as there was no real logical reason he should be feeling sorry in the first place. This was really only a matter of food, with no real hatred aimed at this human. Perhaps Eddie Brock and Peter Parker had influenced the symbiote in unexpected ways with their contact, seeing as they, as humans, were subject to this silly Earth system of "ethics" and "morals". _

_The actual kill took less than two seconds. Simply a matter of pounce. Open jaws. Close around the neck. Twist. Wrench free. Shove the corpse into black waters of the Hudson. Retreat with their prize back up onto a rooftop, where Venom could feed without being disturbed. Once situated in a good spot, Venom opened his jaws, still on all fours. _

_A bloodied head tumbled out, bounced a little and came to a rest facing up. _

_Picking up the severed head, Venom cradled it almost reverently in one claw as he began to set to work with his hand unlocking the prize inside the skull. It took a few minutes, but soon Venom was chewing happily on something coiled, pink and covered with blood. _

_They were Venom and they were sated tonight._

Eddie couldn't get that image out of his head, no matter how hard he tried, and gagged, sure he was going to be sick. He slid off the sink and found himself on the floor, gagging, nausea flooding through him. Jesus. Jesus _Christ_. It kept repeating his head like a mantra, the only thing keeping him from trying to claw his way out of the locked restroom and throwing himself in front of a bus or something.

The symbiote was silent for a moment, lying now in a deceptively meek black puddle under its naked host.

_I didn't tell you because you didn't need to know._

Oh, he damn well _did_!

_We functioned fine before without you knowing. This is why you never knew, because you would blow our natural feeding out of proportion – like all the other humans would. _

"How _else_ was I supposed to take it?" Brock demanded, feeling his insides flopping around in little somersaults of hysterical nausea. "You can't just go up to people and go 'I want to eat your brains'! What the _fuck_! Honestly, the fuck is wrong with you!"

_We require a chemical found in human brains. It may not be…ethical to you as a human, but we _need _it to survive. _

"And if I refuse?" Eddie snarled. For the first time since meeting his Other, he almost understood how Parker felt toward the alien symbiote.

_We suffer hunger withdrawals. _Both _of us. In other words, we lose our sense of self and reason, and go insane. I wouldn't advise trying to resist this particular hunger – I have seen others of my kind try to resist their own individual hungers and it was quite terrible_, the symbiote replied matter-of-factly.

It projected a quick series of jumbled memories, each one worse than the last.

Eddie shut up.

_You are free to try to resist feeding_, the symbiote continued, the black ooze bubbling innocently between its host's bare thighs sitting on the tile of the floor. _But I will continue to fight it, and you, if you choose this foolishness._

"How…how many? How many have you killed?" Eddie whispered. He felt dead. Defeated. "Just how long have you been doing this with our body?"

The symbiote hesitated.

_Since we bonded. The very night we met, I was dying – our Spider wounded me a great deal. We _needed _to feed, otherwise we wouldn't make it to the next morning alive, and you were in no state to care what I did. I made my first kill with you as my host an hour and five minutes after our first meeting, and you were actually _conscious _for that one. _

_We have fed on twenty-six healthy humans and one tainted one to this day._

Making a strangled sort of moan, Eddie buried his face in his hands, feeling like he could cry but unable to get any tears out.

Maybe Parker was right. They _were_ a monster after all.

_Because we feed to exist?_ the symbiote asked dryly. _I think not._

An inky tendril of the symbiote curled up in the air, brushing Eddie's face lovingly.

_A monster is subjective, Host Mine. Humans are monsters to those they prey on. We feed just like any human; we simply have a change in diet, nothing more or less. We are who we are…provided we continue to feed. A brain is just flesh, blood and electrical impulses, essentially. It's hardly different from the meat you humans already feed on, except…fresher._

It all seemed to make sense, but…

_You will have to come to terms with it eventually,_ the Other murmured. _All hosts do. _It seemed to think of something, sounding almost gentle as it added_: If it would make the transition easier, we can feed when your brain sleeps, just as before._

"…Okay," Eddie felt like he'd been picked up, shaken violently and then set down like a limp rag doll. "I better not wake up in the middle of-of any of that."

_As you wish. May we please finish up what we started here?_

Eddie didn't care. He watched and felt all of what transpired next like it happened to a stranger, as if it was a movie and he was sitting as a mere audience member, locked in the theater with no way out, with no choice but to sit it out and watch. The black tentacles of the symbiote oozed around him and began to service him as he sat there stunned on the tiled floor – one speared right up from the ebony puddle under him and penetrated his entrance, wiggling in deeper – pain stabbed at him from inside and the blonde felt a detached sound of distress escape past his mouth even as he wiggled his hips to slide down deeper on the gleaming shaft.

Had he really been conscious for that first kill? How come he didn't remember it?

The symbiote brought up thinner tendrils running up his chest, toying with his bared, hardened nipples, a thicker one coiled around his neck like a snake and began trying to press against his lips. Numbly he felt himself giving way, the coil thick and hot in his mouth as it burrowed deeper down his throat. Rocking back and forth, still on his knees, Brock felt himself slowly being lowered so that he lay face down, pillowed with one outstretched arm. He scrunched his eyes shut as the pumping inside both his entrances increased in tempo and strength, feeling invaded from front and back.

It seemed to go on forever and despite the detachment – shock? – it _hurt_. A lot. It almost never hurt before.

When Eddie came to again, he realized that not only was his whole body achingly sore and tingly, his arm was _killing_ him. Something tasted funny, metallic and when he looked down, he realized why. During the last bit of the session, in order to keep from crying out-loud and alerting the others to their activities, he'd bitten right into his forearm to muffle his voice, ripping open a long, jagged gash running from wrist to elbow that normal human teeth simply couldn't manage. Reaching up shakily to his mouth, he felt the dagger-sharp edges of a row of fangs starting to retreat, slick with his own blood.

_All servicing will be like this_, the Other said. _Until we mate. Then it will go back to normal. It won't hurt then. The mating itself will be both enjoyable and painful – for all parties involved. Sadly, I cannot say the same about the actual birthing._

"I bit myself," Eddie mumbled in dull surprise. "S'hurts."

_We didn't want to make noise and draw attention. It was a smart move. That injury is relatively minor for a servicing session this close to mating. _

Finding that hard to believe and not at all reassuring, the blonde journalist stood up, swayed drunkenly, and righted himself on the sink with his good arm. There were a few cracks from where he'd hit the mirror and his haggard reflection gazed back at him. Moist blood still coated his chin and nose. He alternated between wiping and licking it off until his face was clean again, trying to fix his mussed dirty blonde hair and giving up. Eddie wasn't sure if he imagined it, but it almost felt like his Other was sympathetic as he bent down and wiped up the little lake of his own blood on the floor with a paper towel. He had to grab some toilet paper in order to try to stem the blood from his arm.

They had been inside for only five minutes.

_Why don't we go outside for a bit?_ the symbiote suggested helpfully. _Exercise tends to help._

Eddie nodded mutely.

What he needed right now was to get out of the Globe and just web-sling for a bit. Get his mind out of this bathroom, try to take all this in. And recover, he supposed.

Yes, going outside might be just the thing.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Why _hadn't_ he taken the subway?

Spider-man hated his luck. Really, really, really hated it. It just wasn't fair; he'd been so terrified of Eddie Brock coming after him in the subway, yet there was absolutely no sign of the man or his psycho black sweatshirt. Maybe if he'd just gone as Peter Parker and taken the subway, he wouldn't be in this mess. Come to think of it, he didn't even know what he was doing here, madly trying to dodge Sand Dude for the second time in a month and not even sure why he was getting attacked in the first place.

The New York Public Library was in view when his spider-sense suddenly erupted in his head like a deafening klaxon right in his ear. Spider-man had been so startled that he let go of his web-line prematurely and dropped a story, just as a massive pillar of sand rocketed over his head, missed him, and smashed into the side of a building.

"What the - ?" Spider-man craned his head, quickly regaining his bearings and veering away from the Queensboro Bridge. His heart dropped as he caught sight of a familiar striped shirt. "Oh jeez," the teenager muttered. "Not now, now's _not_ a good time for a round of Kick Spidey."

He narrowly dodged another jet of sand, leaping up and landing neatly on a flag pole protruding horizontally from a nearby apartment building. Sandman retracted his arm from the street below as cars skid to a halt around him, others simply piling into one another, civilians fleeing in all directions. Spider-man scowled, wishing they'd hurry and get out of the way, then cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted down to the street.

"_Hey! Seriously, what's your problem now_?"

"_Get down here_!" Sandman yelled back. It was hard to make out what he was saying. "_We're finishin' this_!"

"_Finishing what_?" Spider-man kept an eye on his opponent as he walked backward from the flagpole parallel to the street and up the wall. If he could get up onto the roof tops, he'd feel a lot safer. "_I thought we were the bestest of best friends, Sand Dude! Is this a date? The least you could do was call, it's only polite!"_

Something that sounded suspiciously like "mouthy jackass" floated up.

"_I heard that_!" Spider-man had about a split second's of warning to dive straight down off the building as a double-headed hammer of sand suddenly came barreling up toward him.

He tucked in and kept his body straight as he dived one story. Two stories. Three and he let loose a line of web at the last second, missing the ground by a few feet and streaking right at a surprised Sandman. Spider-man got in a good double-kick just as the older man was starting to dissolve defensively into sand, knocking him onto his back, and sailed up into the air again, somersaulting as he shook off some sand and then made a bee line away toward the New York Public Library. Clouds of smoke were rising from several of the crashed cars.

Down on the ground, Flint Marko collected himself, reforming and sitting up as a series of unmarked vans and cars came up on the scene. He brushed himself off as Silver Sable joined him. The female mercenary crossed her arms, unimpressed.

"Well?"

Flint shrugged. "Jumpy little bugger. He won't get far."

"Can you even hit him?" Silver Sable was watching Spider-man in the distance, her sharp eyes analyzing his movements, looking for any openings or weakness. She cocked her tranquilizer rifle with a click, checking the chamber. "I could slow him down for you." The rounds she had were enough to bring a team of horses down.

"Whatever. Do it." Flint Marko grunted out the side of his craggy mouth and melted into a river of sand that bounded in great leaps down the abandoned section of Fifth Avenue after Spider-man. Taking her time and remaining where she stood, Silver Sable shook back her luminous hair over one shoulder, lifted the rifle up and carefully began to take aim…

"Oh man oh man oh man," Spider-man said over and over as he booked it to the Public Library.

He seriously couldn't go back to Aunt May's now. It just tore him apart to be stuck running around _this_ guy when all he really wanted to do was make sure his family and friends were safe from Brock. Running away forever from Sandman wouldn't work – he had to think of something to immobilize him for good. He was good with thinking on the fly. That's how he made it this far. Sandman was fast, but Spider-man had a feeling he might be faster if he only put his mind to it. After all, he'd scored an actual hit only a few seconds ago.

Run in. Sucker punch him before he had time to de-solidify or harden. Run out. Rinse and repeat.

Sounded like a _great_ plan…until he could buy enough time to think of something better, because looking over his shoulder, that Sand Dude was getting awfully close for comfort. His time was running out

Spider-man passed over the stone lions guarding the stairs leading up to the library and vaulted up until he was perched on the corners of the roof. Sandman took aim and missed – but just barely. He began swinging at Spider-man with both arms and it was all he could do to keep from getting flattened into the Library. One of the misses caved in a section of the stairs, sending chunks of it flying. Another bowled off the head of one of the lion statues, sending it flying into a parked semi-truck's trailer and right out the other side.

"Hey, I don't suppose we can talk about this?" Spider-man called down and back-flipped away from the latest miss, sprawling on the wall behind him. "I'm sorry, but I don't think it'll work out between us! What with you getting beat by an ugly stick and YOW - !"

Sandman clearly didn't appreciate his wit – he was scowling and looking seriously pissed off, which was the one thing he'd been hoping for. It was running a risk (it'd hurt a lot more to get hit), but his aim probably wouldn't be the best. Spider-man was about to start diving in for what would have to be the most stupid charge in his life when he heard a strange little high pitched sound.

_ Pft! _

"Pft?" Spider-man echoed, bewildered.

He looked down and was rather puzzled to see a little shiny cylinder sticking out of his shoulder. It didn't hurt, not exactly, but he was starting to feel weird and funny where it hit. He pulled it out, looked at it for half a second…realized just what it was. _Oh_. Okay, _awkward_. He hadn't really counted on getting shot up like this. It took the barest of milliseconds to come to the conclusion he probably shouldn't be standing there, presenting such a nice big target, but by then there was another _pft_ of compressed air. Spider-man's head tilted back slightly even as his hand came up to remove the second dart imbedded in the side of his neck.

Without thinking, he started to vault up to roof to the library, thinking only of blind escape and feeling panic welling, when he heard that dreaded puff of air again. Spider-man never made it. He came down on the balls of his feet and rocked slightly, feeling the third tranquilizer dart rooted to his chest right above his heart. He staggered as the potent chemicals from all the darts began to invade his body.

Wow.

So this was what it felt like to get all hopped up?

Who knew it'd be so…so…so weird? So fast? Weird _and_ fast?

He didn't know what this stuff was, but it sure acted fast, didn't it? What'd they shoot him with anyway? Elephant tranquilizers? Feet were pretty much disconnected (gone!) and he felt all light-headed and floppy, what with the world zoning in and out, as if he was traveling through a tunnel on rewind and fast forward - at the same time. Oop, and there went his arms now, with a bizarre sense of weightless inertia carrying them away, leaving his arms dangling limply and his head to droop down toward his chest, barely able to stand upright. Pft! Just like that. Like whoever was shooting him. _Pft_!

Spider-man looked down slowly and found a fourth tranquilizer dart in his thigh.

" 'kay, now thas' jus' unnec'ssary," he slurred and teetered unevenly.

The teenager managed to raise his head – it felt like someone injected concrete into his skull - looked up, saw the giant fist of sand coming right at him and found at he couldn't even move his legs.

Spider-man caught the full force of the blow, body snapping back, and went sailing with a crash of glass through one of the windows and into the Public Library itself. He crashed heavily through one of the long wooden tables in one of the Research Halls, torn papers fluttering around the point of impact as glass shards rained down around him. Outside, Silver Sable lowered her rifle and discreetly switched positions in order to get a better aim on the windows, her hand going up to her ear-piece. All the other members of Wild Pack were scattered around the area by now.

"_Just how many did you shoot him with_?" Flint's voice demanded.

Silver Sable reloaded. "Four. Shouldn't kill him. Seven is the calculated lethal dose."

"_He was just standing there, he didn't even try to dodge me_." Flint sounded deflated. "_You overdid it_."

"You wanted him to stop moving around," Silver Sable replied coolly. "He's stopped. We're not here to play games, Marko."

Flint shook his head. Women. Crazy, the whole lot of them. Damn good reason not to bother if it could be helped. Still, they had been fighting Spider-man for what? Half an hour, tops? That black mutant had come charging in almost the second he'd started kicking Spider-man around and now there was still no sign of him. Maybe he'd heard wrong? What if this mutant wasn't interested in this kid playing superhero?

Doubt began to set in. This could be an incredibly costly mistake if he was wrong.

With this in mind, he mounted the steps of the Library and let himself in, the doors blasting off their hinges and thumping hard to the floor below. The place wasn't quite abandoned; he could hear terrified whispers and someone crying in the distance, but he wasn't overly worried. He took his time picking his way through the ruins until he saw the wreckage from Spider-man's impact, rounding the splintered table cautiously. A set of leanly muscled arms were protruding over part of the table, hanging limply over what remained of it. Flint kept his distance for a moment.

Whatever the hell Silver Sable shot Spider-man up with, it was some damn powerful stuff, Flint realized, gazing down at Spider-man. The kid – he had to be a kid, what with the high school insults – was practically comatose from the tranquilizers, his masked face lolling aimlessly from one side to the other, legs sliding feebly across the wood splinters and glass shards littering the floor as if he was trying to stand up and couldn't quite find the ground. Flint almost felt sorry for the kid. He was a wreck, not even a shadow of that annoying punk flipping around like he was on crack _and_ a massive sugar-high. This wasn't even a challenge.

Those were some amazing shots, but in the end, they were cheap ones. Shooting from afar was a pussy tactic in Flint's book, but he had to give grudging props to Silver Sable: she _was_ efficient in what she did, although he'd have to take her word that all those tranqs wouldn't kill Spider-man. Approaching the defeated superhero, Flint easily picked him up, holding him in the air by one useless arm. Several of the darts were still lodged in the other's body despite the fall, amazingly enough.

"Havin' fun?" Flint asked conversationally. "Wish I could say I was, but this fight was so short it doesn't even count."

Spider-man gave a thick groan. His head slumped down to rest heavily on his shoulder.

"I agree, she _did_ overdo it," Flint replied. "Between us, I think one tranq woulda been plenty, but no, she had t'shoot you up with _four_. Women're crazy, huh?"

Another dazed moan. Spider-man's left arm twitched like he wanted to move it.

"I know you can hear me, Spider-man. Where's your big friend?"

"…dunno…w…wha' talkin'…talkinbout," Spider-man slurred into his shoulder.

"Sure y'don't."

" h-home….e…Eddie…"

Flint contemplated the defeated superhero. It would be so easy to reach out and pull off that red mask, but it seemed like a bit of a cop-out to do it this fast in the game. Unfair especially since Silver Sable was responsible for putting Spider-man out of commission, not _him_, so…yeah. Maybe next encounter, when the odds weren't so stacked against his opponent. Four fucking tranqs. No wonder Spider-man couldn't even string a sentence together. Christ. That silver bitch was _crazy_.

Winding sand around Spider-man's leg and forming them into thick ropes, he dropped the smaller man none too gently on the floor and began dragging him out the way Flint came in minutes before. His captive didn't put up much of a resistance, even as they exited the ruins of the Library doors, and into meager sunlight struggling to peak through the thick rain clouds hovering over Manhattan. There was no sign of Silver Sable.

His headpiece crackled. "_Told you he's still alive_."

Flint dragged Spider-man down the stairs after him like a sack of luggage. "You practically put him in a coma," he returned, irritated. "Good going."

"_Is he still moving_?"

"Barely. He's out of it."

"_Still alive. There you go_."

By now he could hear the sound of sirens. Great.

His headpiece suddenly screeched as one of the other Wild Pack members shouted something. It sounded like "target", except the last part cut off into something that sounded like a scared yell, gunfire and then ended with a sickening _snap_.

"_We've got company_!" Silver Sable's tinny voice said crisply. "_Teams, flash bangs on my mark. Marko, primary target approaching fast from Sixth. We've got him clocked at 50 mph and counting; he's coming in _hot

Flint tossed Spider-man aside at this news, cracking his knuckles.

_ "– Wild Pack 7 and 13 have visual confirmation of primary target –" _

_ "- Wild Pack 21 confirming visuals. Target is entering the designated outer perimeter– " _

_ "- Target has made contact with Wild Pack 1… Wild Pack 1 KIA; Wild Pack 8 MIA, probably KIA as well -" _

Flint rolled his neck back and forth until it popped, getting nice and loosened up.

It was go time.

**To be continued...**  
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	6. When Eddie Met Peter

**Black Substenance**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Spider-man.  
**Author Notes**: Basically it's mostly Ultimate Spider-man universe except Venom's origins are the symbiote and the shuttle crash. Again, plot first, pairings next. This is mostly a mixing of 616 and Ultimateverse. Slashyish, you have been warned. Not fluffy. Sorry about the big delay guys. I tried to make up with a gigantic chapter:D?

_Italics_ for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote  
**Archive**: Sure, just ask.

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Black Sustenance  
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(When Eddie Met Peter)

For once both Eddie Brock and the symbiote were entirely single-minded – any disagreements they might have had over their feeding habits was temporarily forgotten as they registered just _what_ in the world was enfolding right in front of their eyes.

What they saw made them see red.

Sandman stood over _their_ Spider.

Everything about his body language screamed _dominant_, as if he owned Parker.

Whatever his actual intentions were was irrelevant. They read it as a threat to what was their property.

Venom swung in, letting go of the web line at the apex of the arc and dropping like a stone toward their enemy, fangs bared in a snarl. Sandman responded by morphing his arm into a giant hammer of sand – how _imaginative_ – but they were ready for him this time, oh yes. Several black, pulsing tendrils spun out from their bunched shoulders, racing toward the hammer to engulf it, seeking to absorb it into themselves. Sandman managed to recall his blow before they could, but they saw the beginnings of fear and doubt set in. Venom landed heavily on all fours and charged at the other, drooling tongue snaking through the air as they went to drive him off.

They won several yards between them and their contested territory of Parker before Sandman ground in his heels stubbornly and refused to budge another step backward.

"So what're ya? Sandman swirled out of reach of one of the seeking tendrils, reforming a sandy mouth. "A mutie like everyone else in this town?"

A mutant? They gave a hissing, derisve laugh. Venom risked a glance over his shoulder. Spider-man was still out-cold lying where Sandman dropped him, with Venom planted between them.

"We're collecting," Venom hissed. "And we're also in a nice, cozy _killing_ mood today, so we hope you brought plenty humans with you to keep us company."

"Sick fuck, aren't ya?"

A fang-filled, humorless grin. "We try."

"Too bad we're gunning on opposite sides, eh?"

"We're not on anyone's side Venom began, cutting himself off. He had a split second to notice the glint over Sandman's shoulder right before his spider-sense began ringing. Reacting on instinct, Venom bounded out of the way, a small _ping_ betraying the tranquilizer hitting the pavement right where his hand had been seconds before.

Sandman reformed a few meters away, scowling as he glanced over his shoulder. "Silver bitch just don't wait, does she?" he paused, listening to something in his ear. "Yes, I'd like to keep my nuts intact, thanks. It'd help, y'know, if you _wait_ on cuttin' them off until after the job."

He turned around.

"Oh, shi- "

Venom's claw impacted with his face: Sandman's head billowed out back with a violent spray of sand, his whole skull dissolving. Reacting instinctively, Sandman slung out with a left hook, catching only air as Venom ducked.

Unfortunately, that brought him face to face with the flash bang grenade that rolled in between Sandman's feet, coming to an innocent stop before erupting with a deafening, blinding explosion of light and sound.

Venom reeled backward, their third set of eyelids slamming closed before the light could blind them any further. The harsh blast of sound was far worse, sending the oily symbiote covering roiling and bubbling like oil. They went down on all fours, hissing in agony and shaking their head. Another clink to the side. A smoke grenade went off, followed by the second flash bang going off at their feet – it was louder than before, sending physical pangs of pure agony piercing through their limbs. They were aware of something giving an angry, furious roar of defiance, and scrambling away from the spot, dimly aware of the greasy smoke surrounding them and cursing from Sandman.

The spider-sense went off. Left – no, right too!

_All directions!_

Venom barreled out of the cloud of smoke, erupting with slobbering fangs bared, noted that there seemed to be a _lot_ of guns pointed at him, and went for the closest. He was upon the armored human in a split second, punching through the flimsy armor and caving in his ribcage just as the others' guns discharged. The bullets squelched into Venom's back and bounced off as he threw the dying soldier to the ground. A part of them – the Eddie part – was relieved to find they apparently _were_ bullet-proof. The part trying to keep them alive told him to _shut up and concentrate _before they ended up swamped by reinforcements.

They turned, slung out a claw and a tentacle of their skin snapped off like a whip to wrap around the torso of one of the shooters. It constricted. A strangled, guttural scream and then a deliciously final _snap_. The black-clad human collapsed to the ground like a wet sack of flour. Sensing a gap opening in the ring as his opponents spread out, Venom charged forward.

A woman stepped forward. Clad in some kind of white uniform, a gleaming curtain of silver hair fluttering in the breeze, she blocked his way. Venom assumed this was the "silver bitch" that Sandman mentioned earlier. She wasn't tall by any means but she stared him down with the cool expression of someone who was _prepared_.

She was also shouldering what looked like a very big, very deadly rocket launcher.

Without a change in her expression, the silver woman fired. Venom braced for an impact.

What hit him was no ordinary round.

It tore through him just like a flash bang, multiplied a hundred fold and throwing him sprawling backward. They slammed back into the steps of the Library with crushing force, forcing the air out of their lungs. The symbiote hurriedly began pumping in oxygen even as they struggled to breathe, wheezing, fangs parted and tongue lolling. The symbiote gave a pained twitch every few seconds, torn between wanting to rip apart every human here (with Silver Bitch and Sandman at the top of the list) and beating a retreat to lick its wounds while it still could. Venom looked up, saw Sandman suddenly arcing up over them, his legs standing a good distance away, and saw that woman aiming her weapon in his direction.

One way or another, they'd have to take a hit.

Sandman reformed his arms into a basic club and slammed downward just as Silver Sable fired. Venom took the blow on the back of his head and his shoulders, crushed into the very foundation of the Library stairs and disappearing in a pile of rubble.

"_Christ_-!" Sandman recoiled as Silver Sable's shot passed through him and hit the walls with a deafening crack. "Watch where you're shootin'!"

"Just don't let him escape!"

So it wasn't the Spider they were after, Venom realized, too spent to remove himself from the miniature crater in the midst of the stairs. Parker was just bait, set out for a larger fish to try taking a bite of.

And now the hook was piercing the fish, too close for their liking.

That changed everything. Getting captured wasn't acceptable, and he weren't going to stick around despite his bloodlust. Much as he'd like to see Silver Bitch and Sandman lying in pools of blood and entrails, sometimes one just had to swallow one's pride and prioritize. _Prioritizing_ said that they get out of here while they still could. He wasn't used to thinking of himself as actually vulnerable, but all it would take was knock him unconscious, and then he'd be at their mercy.

Venom played dead for a long minute, listening to the humans talking amongst themselves about a _parameter_ and a _retrieval unit_, using the time to orient himself and trying to recall where Parker was. A few yards away, maybe. They most certainly couldn't leave him here, not when these two would love to use their property against them again. Venom's tongue ran slowly over his bloodied fangs, preparing himself and waiting for the pain tremors to die down from that hit earlier. One eye narrowed to a white slit, Venom spotted Spider-man. The superhero was lying right where he'd been dropped, half on his side with an arm pinned under him, presenting a wonderful view of his perfectly toned ass. The suit might as well not be there.

_The mating is _too _close_, Venom thought, furious to realize they had sexual urges despite the circumstances. This had to be the worst mating site possible and yet here he was, about to have what Eddie Brock called a _raging mad hard-on_ even though they could very well be captured and carted off by whoever hired their attackers.

"You think he's out?" Sandman's gravely voice asked nearby.

"Never can be sure with these mutant types," his female partner said. "He didn't seem to like my USW cannon."

"_I_ didn't like your USW."

"Then don't get in its arc of fire next time."

"I had him."

"This isn't a contest, Marko. It's a job. I like to make sure the target's incapacitated than worry about who gets points for taking him down."

A grunt. "You always this crazy?"

"Part and parcel of the job - you over there, hurry up with the containment cage and the _verg_!"

"Verg?"

"VRG vortex ring gun. Payment from my last job. The government hasn't even finished developing them yet. We didn't know this mutant of yours was bulletproof, so I brought two _vergs_ as insurance. They accelerate pressurized gas at high speeds: we've laced these ones with some incapacitating agents strong enough to drop just about anything elephant sized and smaller. I doubt we can penetrate his skin with the typical tranquilizers."

Venom risked tilting his head up to get a better view. The humans were scurrying about back and forth between several black vans toward the Silver Bitch, her back turned momentarily as she went to retrieve her precious _vergs_. A few feet away, Spider-man groaned softly, slowly regaining consciousness. _Stop moving, idiot_, Venom thought angrily. _You'll draw attention to us!_

Obviously telepathy wasn't one of their talents. Spider-man squirmed a bit more and moaned loader. Sandman – Marko, they had a name – glanced over.

Venom did his best road kill impression.

Seeing no immediate threat, Marko glanced back at his female companion. Venom's white eyes opened again, the symbiote's third eyelid nictitating sideways as their jaws parted, carefully ejecting the symbiote's translucent green slime – what passed for blood – from their throat and onto the cracked pavement with inaudible slopping noises. If Venom was going to escape, he wasn't going to do it choking on his own blood. They had more dignity than that.

A small tendril oozed out from their palm, snaking out slowly toward Spider-man. It connected with his back, inched his way over his ribs and back down over the smooth planes of his stomach until they were sure they had a good hold of him. A careful glance around. Most of the humans were collected in the open ground, with none he could see in the actual Library, obviously thinking it was a dead end.

They thought wrong.

Venom heaved himself up, snapping the tendril back to him and feeling the comforting weight of their Spider fall into their arms. He caught sight of the Silver Bitch turned with what looked like a rifle merged with a cannon and shout:

"Don't let him get away!"

They made a break for it, clutching the limp weight of Spider-man to their chest and bounding toward the dark recesses of the Library's lobby, the dust from the debris still floating in their air. They were about to crash through the door when Venom heard a very odd, very low sound incoming. There wasn't an explosion, no flash of light, yet he felt like he'd been punched _hard_ in the back with an ice pick, hard enough that it felt like their spine would snap. Agony. They hit the heavy interior doors and ripped them off the hinges, lurching forward and just barely managed to remain standing, stumbling and scrambling for purchase on rubbery legs.

It seemed like a good idea to just lie down. Rest a bit.

But the pounding of pursuing feet made that impossible.

Working more on instinct than anything else, Venom snapped up a wrist and shot forth a line of web, pulling himself up into the air with a single motion to go crashing against the second floor window of the lobby. Shattered glass sparkled around them. He was startled to find his breaths were coming in ragged, wheezing pants, and knew it wasn't from the shot alone. That silver human - _that bitch_ – had laced it with something, hadn't she? Yes, they remembered her saying something…she'd laced her weapon with something, because the _verg_ didn't shoot the typically ineffective bullets. Bullets didn't cause this much pain. Bullets also didn't have this feeling of _something_ inside them, running through their very veins, and slowly but surely invading their shared nervous system.

Sedatives?

Animal tranqs.

The next few minutes seemed to be a blur to Venom, merging into one another with only brief flashes of reality; a glimpse of a window, a wall coming perilously close, the fading sound of sirens, and eventually the sense of it all sinking away. A kind of deadly numbness settled into their bones. The only thing that seemed to remain a constant was the solid feel of Spider-man's warm body pressed up against theirs, one of his toned arms hooked about loosely around their neck, his head resting against their chest. He still hadn't quite regained consciousness and Venom wasn't even sure how long _he_ would be conscious.

A few minutes. Maybe.

Venom was distantly aware of swinging himself into up onto a ledge and scrambling over the brick wall of some kind of dingy playground, closed off for demolition, before he finally fell to his knees, Spider-man dropping with a thud from slack claws onto dusty gravel. Wheezing, Venom struggled to breathe, his tongue lolling out between fangs, eyes hooded as he pushed himself to his feet, staggered back toward the wall a distance away, and leaned heavily against it. Just a minute to catch their breath. The Spider would be fine, and what was more, he wasn't in Sandman's possession.

Just a minute was all they needed.

Sliding down into a sitting position, Venom slumped over. He heard someone gasping for air and it took a few long, confused seconds to realize it was _him_.

Just a minute…

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"Ugh…"

Spider-man groaned. Since when had he been fed through a cement mixer and spat out?

Another moan. Ouch. Ouchouch with another ouch on top of that.

_Let's not do that again_, Spider-man thought. _Owwwww._

Being in this much pain probably wasn't a good thing, especially when his memory of how he came to be like this was all muddled. All he remembered was trying to fight off Sand Dude and then….nothing. Just this buzzing in his head, which happened to be filled to the top with the very small cotton balls that seemed to be in his mouth. Dry, that was what it felt like. There really wasn't a better description for it aside from being really _cotton bally_.

The next couple of long seconds he devoted to trying to push himself up seemed to stretch on forever, and Spider-man was ridiculously proud of himself when he _did_ finally manage to sit up. Bits and pieces of what happened were starting to come back. The fight had ended up at the Library, with Sand Dude hot on his heels, hadn't it? For some reason he remembered the sensation of compressed air against his skin and something pricking him through his costume – like a needle or something. Kinda reminded him of that time Aunt May took him to get his wisdom teeth removed, actually. _Not_ fun.

_Where am I, anyway?_

Glancing around before him, it was pretty obvious this wasn't the Library: there were a few rusted jungle gyms and see-saws that were probably death traps waiting to happen in the distance, with browning weeds scattered across the lot and a few sparse trees here and there. He couldn't imagine how in the world he could possibly have made it from the Library to here (wherever _here_ was), and anyway, he would've liked to think he could have picked a place with better cover. Spider-man cradled his head, nursing it for a moment as he tried to control the urge to just be gloriously sick all over the ground. There was no _way_ he was throwing up with his mask on.

Spider-man sat up and rested his head between his knees, waiting for the nausea to pass. Definitely on par with getting wisdom teeth removed.

After a few minutes he thought he'd be fit to stand. While standing up looked daunting, considering how hard it had been to sit up, he knew he couldn't just sit here and wait for Sand Dude and his buddies to find him. What had that been all about anyway? _I didn't even see him that time_, Spider-man thought, closing his eyes and waiting for the pavement between his feet to stop spinning. _I was just minding my own business. I could've sworn he came after _me _this time. _It almost felt like he had been targeted, especially when he finally remembered that he _had_ been shot with something before that big blank in his memory. Was it about his secret identity?

Spider-man wobbled but managed proudly to remain standing, concentrating and concentrating _hard_ on keeping his legs under him. They seemed to want to have the consistency of Jell-O. _Okay, easy does it. Baby steps, right_? He turned around and suddenly paused, stiffening, as he saw what was behind him. _Oh my God._

There was a body of a blond-haired man few feet away, slumped up against the wall in a half-sitting position, and not moving, his face obscured from the way his head rested on his chest. There wasn't any clothing on him, which was alarming in itself. Spider-man had seen a lot more than just about any kids his age, but finding naked dead people lying about wasn't one of those things. Hesitantly he took a step, and then another over, deciding to be cautious.

"Hey?" he said. "Sir, are you okay? Or, uh, alive? Please, please tell me you're alive."

No answer. _Okay, don't panic. Could just be unconscious. Absolutely _no _need to freak out, Peter. You've faced Norman Osbourne: you can handle this. If he's…not alive, then you can just call the police. _

Feeling a bit braver, but still somewhat apprehensive (hopefully this man _really_ wasn't dead), Spider-man closed the distance and crouched down, laying a hand on the man's shoulder. Warm still. Careful not to move the body, he touched his fingers to his neck, and breathed an audible sigh of relief. Still had a pulse. It was labored, but it was there, at least. While he felt like a steamroller had run over him for kicks, Spider-man knew he couldn't just leave this poor guy here in good conscience just because _he_ didn't feel up to it.

It was when he got a good look at the man's face that he started having second thoughts.

Eddie Brock!

"Oh jeez!"

Spider-man back peddled frantically with a sharp gasp.

Suddenly panicking uncontrollably looked like a pretty good idea, and he was just about to turn and get out of there when that annoying conscience kicked in again.

Slowly he turned around, cringing, and stared at the unconscious man, hands on his slim hips as he bit his lip. Despite the fact he knew Brock hated him, nevermind the fact he was host to a crazy oil slick from space who _also_ hated him, Spider-man just couldn't shake the feeling that leaving him here wasn't the right thing to do. It was probably the safest, but it wasn't the right thing to do and he wasn't _that_ big a big fat jerk to leave the guy out here without even any clothes.

At least he really _did_ look unconscious, Spider-man reflected, bending down again and examining Brock. His eyes were closed, but there were dark spots under them, as if he hadn't been getting very much sleep recently. His lips were cracked, and slightly parted as he breathed, and he looked deceptively harmless, as if he was just sleeping. There didn't seem to be any blood or even any bruises, no sign of any kind of struggle aside from the thin sheen of sweat covering his body.

"What're you doing out here, Brock?" Spider-man muttered, uneasy. Why would Brock of all people be lying in the middle of nowhere, naked (he was still young enough to be flustered by it, and blushed), _and_ unconscious? "Where's the symbiote?"

Maybe it gave up. Ditched Brock and decided to call it quits, maybe try to go somewhere else. Spider-man couldn't really see that as being very plausible, but he was willing to hope. At any rate, he wasn't going to leave Brock here. Hoping that the former reporter wasn't just faking being unconscious, Spider-man bent down and carefully draped a limp arm over his shoulders, hoisting them up as he made sure he had a good grip on the man. Brock was far heavier than he looked, Spider-man realized, giving an annoyed grunt. _At least he's not trying to pop my head off_, he thought, trying to be positive.

_I'm probably going to regret this for life. If I knew you would care, Brock, I'd totally say you owe me for this_

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Apparently trying to explain what you were doing holding an unconscious, naked guy was a lot harder than it looked.

At least the cop in the emergency room lobby _wasn't_ shooting at him or trying to arrest him (or both). Spider-man decided he liked Officer April already.

"So you found this John Doe in some kind of park?" the female police officer frowned. "No signs of a struggle?"

Spider-man shook his head. He just wanted to go home, but he had to answer what questions he could. "Not that I could see. I…just thought something looked suspicious, so I swung down and there he was. That's how he was like when I found him there."

"Right…you _do_ know this looks highly suspect?"

He sighed. "Lady, you don't know the half of it," he muttered under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Nothing, it's not important," Spider-man said, waving it away. "Look, I'm kind of worried about him. Is there any way to keep tabs on him?"

The cop raised an eyebrow at this. "We're not supposed to release any personal information, especially not to masked vigilantes such as yourself. I'm sorry, but that's how it is. Off the record, I admit I think what you're doing is a good thing for New York," April added, lowering her voice, and offering a tight-lipped smile. "We could use more people like you."

"I…uh…thanks, I guess."

"Still, good guy or not, I can't allow you access. I'm sorry. I'm sure his family and friends will appreciate what you did, but you'll have to let ER take it from here."

April made as if to go toward back toward the counter, and then seemed to think better of it, turning back toward Spider-man and clapping him on the shoulder.

"Don't worry about him, Spider-man. They can take care of him. We'll find out who he is and get him back to his loved ones as soon as possible."

_That's what I'm worried about._ Behind his mask, Spider-man frowned nervously. Maybe Brock would wake up and decide to change his ways, rethink the whole let's-kill-Spidey plan and try to live a normal life that didn't involve killing and Peter Parker. Would he flip out when he found himself here? Spider-man hoped not. Brock hadn't been in the most stable state of mind last time he'd seen him several months ago, but maybe he chilled out since then. _You don't _know _though._ It could be just wishful thinking and he knew he'd have to stake this place out and make sure Brock didn't hurt any of the civilians here.

Great, Spider-man sighed inwardly. This probably meant he had to actually visit the man. As if school and a job weren't enough.

Officer April nodded toward the doors. "You should probably leave now. It won't be good for you if you stick around."

Ouch.

"Point taken. Thanks for the help, officer."

That went a lot better than expected, all things considering. His head still felt funky and his body tingly and just plain _weird_, but he wasn't getting pummeled by Sand Dude, and he at least knew where Brock was. That and he wasn't being chased out of the ER as if he was some kind of criminal, so he had to admit that things went…_well_, surprisingly. It was kind of nice to be able to exit the scene with some dignity.

Still wasn't looking to that visit though.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Humans were funny, bizarre little creatures. For example, sometimes in their night cycles they had mental fantasies that played in their brains like their primitive movies, often for hours at a time. Often they were nonsensical, with no apparent beginning or end until the human in question suddenly woke up disoriented and confused. Eddie Brock said they were "dreams" and that everyone did it. From the symbiote's point of view, it was a miracle humans even evolved this far, considering they spent their night cycles in such a useless and vulnerable fashion.

There didn't seem to be a set purpose for these "dreams" as far as the symbiote knew, only that they happened and couldn't be controlled. Usually they were utter nonsense, figments from the strange human imagination, and it was then that the symbiote tuned it out as irrelevant and distracting. While they were indeed bonded, there was really no way to shut off what it was inconvenient and so it had to put up with its host's mental activities even when he was unconscious.

Eddie Brock was dreaming now. It had taken some time to recover from the sedatives that silver human injected them with, but the host was at the moment sleeping calmly, after suffering the bewildered surprise of finding himself in the emergency room with no recollection as to how he'd gotten there. The female police officer that greeted him made the mistake of clarifying: Spider-man found him unconscious somewhere and rescued him. And now he was safe, she added, so he should get some rest because she had questions she needed to ask tomorrow, both about himself and if he knew Spider-man.

Eddie Brock didn't dream of Spider-man, although the thought of the Spider they lusted for always lingered.

No, he dreamt of Peter Parker. He dreamt of the day when he first met the boy….

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

_He's just a kid_ was Eddie Brock's first thought. Way too young to even be considering professional journalism. He was what, fifteen? Sixteen? Not even in college yet! _He_ hadn't even started thinking about college at that age, much less what he planned to do afterward. While Eddie could see why having someone computer-savvy around - as this Peter Parker was supposed to be – could be useful, he didn't see what that had to do with him being told he could start trailing the real reporters around. While he hadn't met him yet, he still was leery about the whole idea. It seemed like a waste of time to him.

The important thing was that Jameson didn't seem to think so.

"Take a seat, Eddie," Jameson said, waving at one of the chairs.

Eddie sat down and tried futilely to get comfortable. The man had some of the hardest chairs he'd ever sat in, and even seemed to take relish in it, watching his employee fidget and chewing his cigar. Eddie was convinced those things would kill him someday.

Or try, anyway. Jameson was a hardass through and through. It would take more than a bunch of pussy cigars to kill _him_.

"Boss, I just don't know about all this," Eddie began, frowning. "I can cover the Quentin Beck conference on my own."

Jameson rounded his desk, but didn't sit down. He liked to stand while those in his office sat – gave him a sense of power and was a small reminder of what the hierarchy was.

"Parker's coming with you."

The blond refused to give up. "You just said he only maintains the Bugle website. I just don't see why your programmer needs to tag along with me on a beat. I think I can handle a simple conference."

"He's coming whether you like it or not," Jameson said, staring the journalist straight in the eye. "He should have some first hand experience with what we do here. It'll give him a better outlook on his work on our site. From his poor attendance record, you'd think he didn't take his job seriously."

Eddie fumed quietly. He didn't think his boss was saying he was a bad journalist, necessarily, but it still felt that way all the same. It wasn't a good feeling either, not when he took very real pride in his abilities and his work. He put everything into his job here at the Bugle, and not just because he was newly married: he honestly thought he could do some real good with reporting. It felt _right_ to be here, working for Jameson and working for the _Daily Bugle_.

"I hope you're not asking me to baby-sit him," said Eddie.

"It's not a question of asking. I'm _telling_ you to."

Eddie shook his head. "I guess there's no changing your mind, is there?"

"Not really, no."

Christ. There was no working around it then. He'd just have to suck it up and deal with the kid dogging his heels for the day, Eddie supposed. It wasn't that long anyway. It would be an exercise of his patience, but Anne said he could improve in that area to begin with. His wife was right. Seemed kind of stupid to get so caught up over whether or not a kid he hadn't even met yet tagged along and took notes.

"Okay," said Eddie. "I'll try to do what I can. I just hope he doesn't follow so close that I trip over him."

Jameson broke into one of his typically fierce grins: it looked more like a snarl hooded by his mustache than anything friendly, but Eddie could tell he was pleased. "That's the spirit, Eddie."

Eddie checked his watch. "So where is this Parker anyway? Isn't he supposed to be here by now?"

The head editor heaved an annoyed sigh. "Fucked if I know."

"Not very professional, is he?"

"Flaky as hell, actually," Jameson admitted. "Not a _complete_ moron like kids are these days, but he's an idiot when priorities are concerned."

That didn't sound very promising. Eddie wondered why the kid was even still working at the Bugle if he was this late consistently. Surely he'd run out of excuses or Jameson or Robbie would call him out on it. The Quentin Beck conference was _today_, and while reasonably close, he still wanted to scope out the place, maybe see if he could nab an exclusive with Beck himself. Waiting for Parker to show up was only delaying the chance of that happening.

It was another ten minutes before he _did_ show, rushing into the office half out of breath.

"I'm s-sorry I'm late," the boy said, trying to catch his breath. "E-Emergency with my aunt's, um, allergies."

"_Again_?" Jameson sounded incredulous. He made a cutting motion with his hand. "Nevermind! Peter Parker, this is Eddie Brock. You've kept us waiting."

Eddie stood up and faced Parker, sizing him up. Peter Parker was shorter than he, but could potentially put on a growth spurt. Despite his state of clothing (part of his work shirt was untucked), he had that wiry look of someone who was either an acrobat or who spent a good portion of his life running from school bullies. Looking at the kid, Eddie decided it was probably the latter: something about Parker just screamed _bully material_, he thought, feeling some sympathy for the kid. Probably explained why he was so interested in a respectable job like the Bugle, although Eddie was of the mind that Peter needed to clean up his act if he did. For starters, cutting that shaggy, mousy brown hair. It wasn't hippie length, but it was long enough that it looked like Parker didn't care too much about his appearances.

One of the things he would have to learn was that appearances could make or break you in this job. It wasn't improbable that an exclusive with someone could turn sour if you didn't look or act professional and clean cut. At least he had a good complexion, his youthful face clear of noticeable blemishes.

Eddie held out his hand. Parker shook it enthusiastically. Eddie couldn't help wincing at the handshake, feeling as if the kid was crushing his fingers together.

Noticing this, Parker sheepishly let go. "Sorry, Eddie."

"It's okay," said Eddie, giving his hand a rueful shake. A person's handshake said loads about them, in his opinion. Despite Parker's appearances, it looked like self-confidence _wasn't_ one of his problems. "Strong grip there."

"Got ahead of myself, I guess."

Jameson rolled his eyes. "We done with the pillow talk?" he demanded. "This's only a day deal, Parker. You'll accompany Eddie here for today and tonight. He'll be reporting on the Quentin Beck press conference at the Javits Convention Center about his next project, so you need to be on the ball." He shook an accusing finger at Parker. "No excuses. You _need_ to be there on time and be Eddie's shadow. I want you glued to his hip and _inseparable_."

"I will."

Jameson chewed on his cigar for a moment and then nodded. "Okay. I'll expect some good stuff when you both get back. We'll see how well you work together: maybe I'll like what I see, but I'm not getting my hopes up."

"John'll be there, right?" Eddie asked. He met Jameson's son once before, right before he left to go train to be an astronaut.

The head editor fairly glowed with pride. "You better believe it. If you can, get some pictures of him with Quentin Beck. Now go get in gear before they start the conference without you."

Eddie herded Parker out of his boss's office, feeling more like a babysitter than a journalist and not too happy at the hint that this might not be the last of it. They rode the elevator down together to the parking garage, Parker fidgeting with the mangy green backpack he'd run in with. Eddie glanced over, frowning.

"You know, you can leave that in my car if you want. You don't need your books where we're going."

Parker blinked and looked a bit nervous, giving that deer-in-the-headlights look. "Thanks, but I think I'm cool," he said, shouldering his backpack.

"Okay, lesson one, Parker," Eddie said, feeling for the teenager despite himself. "Appearances. We _have_ to look professional where we're going and lugging in a backpack that looks like _that_ is the first way to shoot that impression down."

Parker flushed. "I didn't know that."

"You should probably just leave it in my car. It'll be safe there: I just don't think you should bring it in is all I'm saying."

"Okay…I guess," Parker sounded mildly flustered. "I'll do that."

The drive to the Javits Center wasn't as awkward as he thought he would. It was out of habit of his job that he inquired about Parker's background, but the kid seemed more than happy to talk about his aunt and his friends, although he didn't seem to have much in the way of hobbies from what Eddie could tell. He seemed awfully vague about what he did in his free time, but Eddie chalked it up to a teenager thing. He'd gone through the same stage of feeling like what _he_ did in _his_ free time was his business alone.

Eddie focused on navigating the streets, but he didn't mind answering any of the questions Parker asked. Yes, he was married, and he really liked his job at the _Daily Bugle_. He wouldn't trade it for the world. Yes, he did have to agree Jameson was hard, but that was what made him a good, focused employer, as far as he was concerned. Besides, he meant well even if he was a dick about it.

Parker gaped. "Did you mean that?"

"What?"

"You…uh, just called him a dick."

Eddie shrugged. "I'd be lying if I said he was all sunshine and rainbows. The truth is he _can_ be a bit of a dick at times. Look at how he treats his vets. Like Robbie, for example."

Parker frowned, looking out the window at the pedestrians crossing the street in front of them. "I don't know…"

"I'm not saying he's a bad man, but obviously he was born without the connection in the brain between being nice and being tactful that the majority of humanity has," Brock pulled into the parking lot of the Javits Center, trying to find a spot, and concentrating. "I'm saying this and I _like_ Jameson. Robbie's practically his best friend and even he has to agree."

"What was that about professionalism?" Parker quipped.

Eddie finally found a spot, and pulled in. He began rummaging in the back of the car for his camera and press pass, handing an extra one to Parker. "Ha, ha, funny. The difference is I _respect_ Jameson and can understand that him being a dick's necessary for the job. He knows what he wants and gets things done. By the way, tuck in that shirt."

"Oops. Sorry."

Eddie led the way toward the entrance of the Lavits Center, Parker dogging his heels and trotting to catch up like a lost puppy. He'd done the smart thing and left his old green backpack in Eddie's car, although he had somehow scrounged up his own camera, and was now clutching it in his hands.

"You take pictures?" Eddie nodded toward the camera. "I thought you were just a programmer."

Parker offered a shy grin. "I sometimes do. I managed to take a few pictures of Spider-man for Jameson."

Eddie almost missed a step at this. _He_ had been trying to get a picture of Spider-man for several weeks and here a mere fifteen year old did what he couldn't! Knowing this rankled a bit, actually, especially when it felt like he'd been upstaged somehow. "That's incredible," Eddie managed, swallowing. "I've been trying to do the same thing. Spider-man's really hard to catch on camera. It's like he's got some weird sixth sense if you even so much as _point_ one at him."

Parker gave an embarrassed cough. "It's just Parker luck, that's all. I just got lucky and he didn't see me."

"So what do you like better, photography or programming?" Eddie asked.

"Photography," Parker replied. "But it's not as steady compared to programming."

By now they had reached the doors, the lobby already crowded with the press from various news stations and papers. Eddie showed his badge at the door, craning his head and trying to see if there was anyone he could recognize. All of the major news stations were there, and he even saw some correspondents from the _Daily Globe_. Eddie scowled at this. Not them again. He'd heard all about their shady tactics and wanted no part in it, not even when they offered far better pay than the _Daily Bugle_ to entice him to defect. Jameson might be a dick, as he'd told Parker, but Brock happened to be _loyal_ to said dick. Hoping the throng of press was chaotic enough that the Globe correspondents wouldn't see him, Eddie turned to Parker:

"I don't know if you know anything about Quentin Beck, but he's apparently going to be huge in Hollywood," he said. "Some kind of big special effects guy, but he's also got a bit of a criminal track record, which explains the mob here. You bet half of them wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the juicy details of his past life."

Parker glanced around as if hoping to see Beck himself.

"Criminal track record? Why would it be such a big deal?"

"In the eighties he tried robbing a bunch of big department stores. The final count was something like ten of them," Eddie paused, "Failed each time, but you have to admit the guy was persistent. Anyway, the story is he turned over a new leaf and decided he rather work the movie business as a legit. Don't ask me how he got off so easily. He used his, ah, infamy to get funds and such for this mystery project. That and apparently he's also very much against the whole masked vigilante deal," he added offhandedly.

"How come?"

Looking around, Eddie realized that exclusive with Beck would have to wait. "Remember that string of robberies? And getting bagged for each one? A superhero did the bagging each and every time. I heard this conference might have something to do with his anti-vigilante view."

"Oh," Parker said, looking troubled.

"_Welcome to the Conference_," a well-dressed woman said, speaking through a megaphone, voice tinny. "_Thank you for being here. If you will please follow me this way, we can begin filling the room and Mr. Beck will be begin_."

Eddie began pushing his way through the crowd, motioning for the kid to follow him. If he was going to have to shout questions and try to get some good pictures, he'd rather do it from the front row than trying to do it in the back like an idiot who _didn't_ think it proper reporter behavior to elbow your way to the front and get the money shots. The crowd filed into the conference room, which looked closer to a theater than anything else, the "stage" elaborate and framed on each side by thick, rich, royal blue curtains. Eddie positioned himself slightly off to the side, next to a WNBC tripod, careful not to jostle the expensive equipment. Not exactly the center (the _Daily Globe_ beat him there), but close enough.

"Press conferences like this usually will have a Q and A session afterward," Eddie said to Peter, "Beck will most likely be introduced by someone and then he'll have his say. Basically we just sit through it and take pictures until the Q and A. Sometimes they'll be nice and organized, but there's a chance it could be a free-for-all with people just yelling them out. Just look sharp and it should be fine."

Eddie fell silent as the same woman from before mounted the stage, a bright spotlight following her. It seemed rather dramatically over the top, but he supposed it fit with Quentin Beck's profile.

"Thank you for coming, associated press. Quentin Beck, a native of Modesto, California, is glad to be in New York, and will be happy to field any questions or comments after the presentation. He hopes that you will give him your full attention and consider his words: he is confident that you will all agree with the specific points of his presentation."

The woman held out a hand, sweeping it behind her.

"I give you…Mr. Beck!"

The lights dimmed further, the female aide stepping aside into the darkness as all eyes turned to the front. Brock raised an eyebrow as bright green smoke effects began to flood the stage, resembling nothing more than a bank of soupy fog rolling in from the right. It slowly overtook the front of the stage and oozed down, flowing around the crowd's ankles. _Theatrics_. Eddie sighed. At least all he had to do was report objectively on this. _Subjectively_ he thought this was way over the top and utterly inane. Next to him, Parker gave a startled sniff, as if smelling something weird, and clapped a hand over his nose. Eddie ignored him, watching the stage.

There was a flash like lightning; a fountain of more smoke – blue, this time - flared up in the middle of the stage, backlit by the light and illuminating the figure of a man suddenly standing there. As the blue smoke billowed and dissipated into those closest, the man stepped forward and bowed.

"I am Quentin Beck," Beck said. Eddie couldn't help the beginnings of an incredulous smirk. Was he wearing a _cape_? "And I have a message today that I think you will find it most imperative to spread to greater New York."

He then began to ramble on about some kind of movie, as well as some kind of invention that would "revolutionize' the world of entertainment for a good half hour. In the middle of it he suddenly launched into a tirade against "the costumed anti-heroes" of the world and how everyone was better off without them. Eddie took mental notes, knowing Jameson would eat up this business about anti-superheroes and love it. It was when Beck launched into the specifics of New York's superheroes and how he would turn New York against them that Eddie noticed one of two things:

For some reason he felt really weird. Lightheaded. Tipsy, even.

Was he imagining it or was the room starting to tilt pleasantly?

And second, where was Parker?

Eddie felt nice and heavy, a bit drowsy (though he couldn't understand why, considering he'd run through several Red Bulls on the way to the Bugle offices), and it seemed somehow right to just turn back to Beck and listen to his rather lovely speech. And it suddenly _did_ seem to be a good speech, even though in the back of Eddie's mind he knew it to be utterly ridiculous and chock full of logical fallacies. But somehow he couldn't muster up the ability to care.

"And now we have Spider-man," Beck was saying, gazing out over the increasingly glassy faces of the press in front of him. For some reason he was now wearing a fishbowl on his head, Eddie noticed, and thought it was the most handsome, shiniest thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Beck continued to scold the silent room, shaking a finger as one would at a child: "You allow him to run across your beautiful city and yet he preys on the everyday man in the name of help where it isn't needed. For shame, New York. For shame….but now I will be there to help you, beautiful New York, to be rid of this menace. He will be an example to all other masked vigilantes out there. I aim to kill him, you see," Beck smiled benignly. "And I think you all should help me, starting with you, the associated press."

Eddie found himself agreeing without knowing why. He meant to turn to Parker and asked if _he_ agreed with these rather salient points when he suddenly remembered the kid had vanished. What was it Jameson said? _I want you glued to his hip and inseparable_. No excuses.

That applied to Eddie too, didn't it?

Parker was his responsibility.

Concern flooded into the blond, dashing away for the moment the feeling of utter contentment and faith in the speech. Where _was_ Parker? Now that he wasn't entirely focused on Beck, he found himself growing increasingly worried, and baffled as to why his body seemed to not want to obey him. It felt like he was about to faint only he was still awake, treading the edge of awareness. Confused by his lethargy and starting to feel decidedly alarmed without being able to say exactly what was wrong, Brock began to push through the other, unresisting reporters, scanning the crowd for Parker's mess of shaggy brown hair.

He wasn't here. _Peter_ wasn't here! Eddie staggered forward, forgetting about Beck and his far-too-attractive fishbowl head.

"Aim to kill me? Might want to step in line, pal."

Eddie turned at the alien sound of a voice that _wasn't_ Beck's hypnotic one, and froze, swaying and feeling like he was about to tilt over with the way the room was spinning and turning. The owner of the voice was a blue and red costumed form, wiry and leanly muscled, and currently perched impossibly on the ceiling. Upside down.

Spider-man.

The superhero dropped from the ceiling and landed neatly in a crouch on a camera tripod a few meters from Beck.

"I'm probably going to sound really, really stupid, but I've got to ask," Spider-man said. "Is that a _fishbowl_ on your head?"

Beck – if that was even Beck, he wasn't dressed like him at all aside from the purple cape – stepped away from the podium, his cape swirling at armored ankles. "So you finally showed up."

"You the next big bad supervillian, Mysterio? It's kind of hard to take you seriously with that on your head, you know," Spider-man quipped.

Beck flared, his hands glowing red. "My name isn't 'Mysterio', you insolent brat!"

Spider-man tapped a finger to his chin. "I don't know, I rather like Mysterio. It's got a great ring to it - Jeez, everyone's a critic!" he jumped out of the way of a fireball that singed the curtain behind him, landing right next to Beck and going right up to the glass dome covering his head. "Don't tell me you came to kick my butt all the way from California and you didn't even think of a _name_?"

Another fireball, easily dodged with a flip backward, and then Mysterio turned toward the crowd of enthralled reporters, pointing his still smoking gauntlets at them. Spider-man stopped.

"How would you like to fight several hundred, Spider-man?" Mysterio demanded. "New York already hates you. I'm sure these fine people would like to show you their hate up close at my word. Or maybe you would like to just see them fry rather than fight them all? That gas you see around them just so happens to be highly flammable, and I imagine they would be quite happy to burn as they rend you limb from limb."

That gave Spider-man pause. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "So what is it you really want?"

"I want you. You will hand yourself over to me and I will unmask you for the fraud you are in public. I want everyone to know that masked freaks like you are blights on society and normal, hard-working people!"

Spider-man hung his head and then slowly held out his arms. "Okay, you win, Beck. Just…just don't hurt all these people."

"So even you can see reason," Mysterio sniffed. Reaching into the podium, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and approached Spider-man with them. Eddie couldn't help but watch, unable to turn away. There was something strange about Spider-man, like he'd met him before, and it had something to do with that insanely _young_ voice. But the thought sank into the lethargy and Eddie only had the strength to try to push toward the stage, every now and then sagging against another unresponsive body as he wobbled on feet that weren't his.

Mysterio was almost at Spider-man, his back straight and triumphant.

Spider-man continued to hold out his hands as Mysterio slapped on the first end of the heavy duty handcuffs onto his wrist, the superhero's face tilted toward the left green armored gauntlet. "Hey, I just want to say something real quick, if it's okay with you."

"What?"

Spider-man looked up, his webbed mask mirrored in Mysterio's helmet.

"You know what I think? I think you're a big fat _fake_!" Spider-man ripped his hands free and lunged for the other man.

"You-!"

Mysterio slammed up against the wall with an audible crack of thick glass meeting brick. A section of it continued to fracture and fell away from the dome, tinkling, and revealing the face of the man underneath. Spider-man leaned close, holding him up easily several feet from the floor by the front of his reinforced shirt

"Next time you showboat, make sure you've got real weapons to use against me! Your gauntlets don't shoot anything but smoke, Mysterio!"

Beck struggled to break free, eyes blazing with fury. "Are you sure you want to be threatening me, brat? The reporters out there will do what I say – that was no bluff."

"I'll take my chances," Spider-man returned. "Since your big scary fireballs weren't so scary after all, just fancy pyrotechnics."

"Kill h-"

A gloved fist hammered into the rest of the glass, shattering it, and impacted with Beck's face. "Yeah, let's not." Spider-man let go of the unconscious man, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground with an audible thunk. There was a loud _whoosh_ and Beck's right gauntlet abruptly lit up, sending a very real flamethrower's gout up into the curtains and setting them alight.

"Oops," said Spider-man.

Eddie's head didn't feel any clearer and his body was still torn between reviving and passing out, but he was _pretty_ sure the theater suddenly being on fire was a bad thing.

That "oops" hadn't been very encouraging either.

Spider-man shouted to the dazed crowd. "Everyone please head to the exits in an orderly fashion if you can! And by fashion, I mean _just get out of here_!"

The throng of reporters dissolved into a panicked frenzy as some of them began snapping out of their daze, staggering drunkenly this way and that, bumping into another and tripping over each other and camera equipment. Smoke – real smoke – began to billow into the room as Eddie sought to fight his way through the reporters and correspondents streaming past him in a disorganized stampede, the room swirling in a way that wasn't at all pleasant, as it was earlier, and was now just nauseating. He had to find Parker. The thought kept circling in his head. Parker was _his_ responsibility and he wasn't going to disappoint Jameson.

After what seemed like eternity between his own body's weakness and the oily black smoke darkening the room, Eddie reached the stage, where Spider-man was throwing the unconscious Mysterio over his shoulder.

"Spider-man!" Eddie slurred.

The superhero jerked up in surprise, almost tossing Mysterio back onto the floor. "Eddie!"

Eddie bulldozed over the fact Spider-man somehow knew his name. It seemed like a passing curiosity; he was preoccupied with just trying to keep that webbed mask in focus since it was so determined to swim dizzily in his vision. "I…'s a kid. Peter Parker. Gotta…gotta find 'im."

Spider-man seemed to relax. "I'll find him. You just get outside, okay?"

The blond shook his head. Spider-man wasn't understanding, dammit. The kid was still out there and he couldn't be expected to know what he looked like. He was just saying that to get Eddie out of here and didn't understand he wasn't going anywhere without the kid in sight and in tow. Spider-man didn't understand that it was Eddie's job to look out after Parker and make sure he got back to Jameson in one piece.

Eddie decided to go look for Parker himself, and had even turned to leave when his body finally made up its mind and said _screw this, we're done for now_, and promptly pitched him backward into nothingness.

"_Breathe, Eddie_!"

The next thing he was aware of was a sensation of swimming, only it wasn't his body doing it, it was his brain and it was pretty damn weird to have your brain swimming in what looked more like a thick pool of oil than anything else. It was really hard to breathe too, his chest constricting as something pressed up and down on it in a steady pumping motion. It felt an awful lot like a fist, now that he thought about it. What was a fist doing hammering away at his chest? Even stranger was the feeling of _someone_ bending close to his numbed face, pinching his nose (which made it even harder to breathe, in Eddie's opinion), tilting back his head, and pressing their mouth to his.

Air rushed into his lungs with the contact. His chest expanded. The mouth didn't taste particularly good – like ashes, as if something was burning – but it gave him the priceless ability to breathe.

Even on the unconscious level, Eddie was hungry for the next contact.

"Come on, _breathe_," a grunt, as someone returned their attention back to pumping urgently up and down on his chest. "I know you can do it, Eddie! You had the guts to call Jameson a dick, so how's a stupid little fire going to stop you? Breathe for me now, come _on_."

His vision swam into some focus as the giver of air bent down again after pumping at his chest for a bit. His closed eyelids briefly flickered. For a delirious second, Eddie caught a glimpse of a mask, red and ribbed with black webs, pulled up just over someone's nose and revealing a strong, young jaw and firm lips that were soon pressed over his and breathing for him. When that warm mouth closed over his slack one, and shared the precious air, it seemed _right_, and a basic, instinctual part of him was glad to take, greedy for more.

_Needing_ more.

Suddenly he could feel his lungs doing what they were supposed to be doing in the first place and breathing for him. A choking cough wracked his frame as he sucked in his first breath for himself, gasping, eyes closed, and still walking that fine line between consciousness and oblivion. Eddie felt his body lift from the ground as he struggled to take in more fresh air, feeling it pierce into his lungs and yet desperately gulping more. It tasted of the same ashes as the giver's lips. Eddie's hand shot out and grabbed onto something, _anything_, with a deathgrip. A hand closed over his.

"He's okay now," Spider-man's voice floated above him. "I think he needs space, so let's give it to him, people."

The hand withdrew. As he sucked in trembling breaths that grew increasingly stronger, Eddie became gradually aware of other voices around him, the painful wail of sirens, and a bizarre sound like a waterfall in the distance. Someone dropped down next to him and began softly slapping his cheek with a warm hand; gentle taps, really, but they guided him back to consciousness all the same.

"Come on, Eddie," Spider-man pleaded. "Come on, you can do it."

Eddie's gray eyes drifted open, and the world around him slowly wavered back into focus, with blurs resolving into shapes and finally into things he could actually recognize. He noted with dazed surprise that it wasn't Spider-man, like he'd thought, at his side, but gawky, clueless Peter Parker peering down at him with those utterly average brown eyes of his. For some reason Brock's eyes slid down from the kid's worried, soot-streaked face to his shirt and almost smiled, seeing a glimpse of red and blue, and not registering its implications:

"Y-your shirt's untucked," Eddie rasped.

Parker broke out into a relieved grin that lit up his dirty face even as he hurriedly tucked it back in. "You're okay! I was really worried about you."

Eddie gave another cough, his head starting to clear: _you,_ it said, _are in really crappy shape right now_. "You made it out? How?"

"Spider-man," Parker said quickly. "He found me and took me out of there. He said you were looking for me."

The blonde resolved to just lie there for a while. The pavement under his back didn't feel too good, but he was more than happy to relish the idea of simply _breathing_ again. "What's going on?" Eddie asked, disoriented. "The last thing I remember is…" he trailed off helplessly. Not much. What he did remember was the curtains _on fire_ and that ominous "oops".

Parker glanced up, then back down. "As soon as people saw smoke from the Lavits, they called the cops and everything. They're trying to put out the fires and tend to everyone."

"And…." Brock sucked in a shaky breath, relieved he'd stopped coughing. His voice was still shot to hell though, coming out in a tortured whisper. "And what about Quentin Beck?"

"Police got him, I think. Hopefully he stays behind bars this time."

Parker hesitated and then spoke up again, looking down, his cheeks flushing as if ashamed. "Eddie…just so you know, I wanted to tell you that someone tried to break into your car while we were in there. They broke one of the windows. The back one. I guess they saw my backpack there and thought something valuable might be in there, and tried punching through it."

Anger was probably a good idea, but right now he was too damn exhausted to care. Eddie managed a feeble nod.

"Was there?"

"Was there what?"

"Was there anything valuable?" Eddie gazed up at Parker's face. "In your backpack."

The teenager looked away, and shook his head, still looking ashamed for some reason. "No, there wasn't anything valuable. I'm sorry about the window, Eddie."

"It's not your fault."

Parker looked as if he wanted to argue the point but then thought better of it, settling for nodding instead. They listened to the sound of the fire trucks – the source of that roaring sound like a waterfall – combating the blaze in the Lavits Center. Eddie debated the merits of trying to sit up now, but Parker held out his hand in a _no_, _stay_ gesture, pressing him back down gently as if he was made of glass.

"You probably should take it easy, Eddie," he said, reaching up and wiping unconsciously at the big black soot spot on his cheek. It only succeeded in smearing it around even worse.

Eddie relaxed back with a weak sigh. A part of him wanted to jump up and get the scoop on whatever the hell happened, like a good reporter should, but he just didn't think he had it in him. It was hard enough to even stay awake and he had a monster of a headache, nevermind the fact his chest hurt and his mouth felt numb, bruised and aching. _I have to stay awake_, he thought, looking up at Parker's boyish, soot-covered face. He couldn't go scaring the poor kid, especially on a day like today.

He managed a faint smile. "Some first day on the field, huh, Parker?"

Peter Parker grinned crookedly.

"You've got a very exciting job, Mr. Eddie Brock."

**To be continued...**  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X


	7. Bad Blood

**Black Sustenance**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: Naturally I don't own Spider-man.  
**Author Notes**: Quickish (for me) update. I just wanted to thank everyone who reads this random story. I also want to thank to those who reviewed: while I don't write for reviews (I write since I want to see where the story goes and because I enjoy writing), I appreciate them a lot. Thank you both for reading and reviewing.

One more thing: just pimping out this since it's Spider-man and Eddie Brock related. I finished up an Eddie Brock/Venom symbiote fanart. :D It's located at (just remove the spaces):

www. deviantart. com/deviation /52014232/

for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote  
**Archive**: Sure, just ask.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X  
Black Sustenance  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(Bad Blood)

Silver Sable crossed the foyer with purposeful strides, her gleaming hair shining white in the overhead lights as she stalked toward the fine oak doors across from her. Fighting and losing that mysterious black mutant didn't please her, much less the idea that a good portion of the Wild Pack team was either recovering or just plain _dead_ after the encounter. They didn't even have anything to show for it. That was the worst part of it, the part that made Silver Sable grit her teeth and wonder if the job was even worth it. She didn't look forward to contacting the deceased's families.

How had that mutant escaped? She shot him not only with the USW cannon, but also with a damn _verg_! The creature should have been in a coma, _not_ running and evading the sweep teams on the streets for the entire weekend. There had been no sign of the beast's slobbering face at all. Spider-man was active again, but they decided it would be best to stay away from him for now. At least that was Flint Marko's plan: _she_ fully intended to find out Spider-man's relationship to this black mutant and follow up on it. Was he a monster like that all the time? Or was it some kind of transformation, like the Hulk?

It _had_ to be some kind of transformation. How else could the mutant hide from them this long? Even if he'd fled to the sewers and subway tunnels, Wild Pack should have flushed him out by now.

This was one of those details that _would_ have been nice to know ahead of time.

She was used to hunting to down targets, running them down until they were too tired to keep going. But that was as long as her contract was valid and she was unsure if the Kingpin still thought her services worthwhile after the mess that was two days ago. _It's Marko's fault_, Silver Sable thought, and knew it didn't matter. His failure was her failure.

Pushing open the double doors to the expansive office revealed Marko already talking to Wilson Fisk. Or rather, talking _at_ him – the Kingpin didn't even look like he was listening, squeezed into his chair and glancing out the window as Marko explained himself, his burly arms crossed over his chest. They both turned toward the door at her arrival.

"Ms. Sablinovia," Fisk said.

Silver Sable coolly nodded to Fisk, coming to a halt next to Marko. "Mr. Fisk."

"Mr. Marko here was telling me of your…problems capturing this mutant," Fisk went on. "I don't think it needs to be said I'm growing concerned about this. You came to me highly recommended, after all."

The female mercenary's only sign of reaction was a faint thinning of her lips. "I intend to correct our setback. My Wild Pack operatives are scouring the area he was last seen, and we are widening the search radius as we speak."

"I believe he knows he's being pursued. He won't be baited so easily."

"He can't hide forever," Silver Sable said, more of out sheer experience than any bravado. "We _will_ find him. We already know that Spider-man is the link."

Fisk was silent, and then turned in his chair, facing the impressive view of the Manhattan skyline he had from his office window. It was high enough to where one felt like they were looking out over the world. "I'll give you one week. One week before I start showing interest in this Deadpool character."

Next to Silver Sable, Marko gave a twitch, looking up and glaring at the back of Fisk's chair. Obviously Deadpool was so notorious that even he knew of the madman. Silver Sable pushed down her pride and nodded, then turned smartly on her heel and marched herself out of the room. Marko caught up with her once they were out of the range of the office, grabbing her by the arm.

"I thought we agreed to back off of Spider-man for the time bein'!" Marko hissed.

Silver Sable glanced down at her arm. "Remove your hand before I get unpleasant."

Marko glared, but let go. He was unable to resist muttering "crazy bitch", but she decided to ignore it this time around. It was half-hearted anyway.

"Finding this mutant's more important and Spider-man is our main lead," Silver Sable said. "We have a week before my employer makes the mistake of replacing me with Deadpool. I don't know about you, but _I_ don't intend to be in the area if he does show up. I think it best if we don't give him any excuse to be in New York in the first place. I don't like getting civilians killed if I can avoid it."

"I'd rather not get killed if _I_ could avoid it," Marko muttered under his breath.

Silver Sable quirked an eyebrow at him. "_You're_ made of sand. I don't think you're in much danger."

"I'm sure he could get creative an' figure somethin' out," Marko replied. "I've heard he's done crazier."

"Either way, we need to do whatever it takes to capture this black mutant of yours," Silver Sable said. "I'll have Spider-man followed. Eventually he'll slip and we can track him down, identify him. Once we know his true identity, we'll be closer to learning who this mutant is if we can narrow down who he's been in contact with as both himself and Spider-man."

"Do what y'gotta do, I guess," Marko grunted, finally relenting. "I'm going to find this fucker _my_ way."

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Peter Parker shook his head furiously. No way was he letting MJ come!

"No, I don't think it's a good idea," he protested. "You're _not_ coming, okay?"

Mary Jane flared, planting her hands on her hips. "How come?"

"It's…it's just a guy from my work," Peter explained, not backing down. It was bad enough he had to risk it all to make sure Brock _wasn't_ going on a bloody rampage because of him. He could never forgive himself for putting MJ in the line of fire in case anything happened. Seeing that his best friend wasn't just accepting that explanation alone, he decided he would have to tell her some of the truth. "Eddie Brock."

Mary Jane's face was blank.

Peter tried again. "The one that threatened to kill me?"

"Oh!" Mary Jane look startled. "They found him?"

"Yeah. I…I think I should visit him, but I think it's safer if you don't come."

"Why would you even want to visit a guy who threatened to kill you?" Mary Jane asked.

Peter sighed. It was a lot bigger than just that. After all, he was already threatened every day to begin with, from small time crooks to the next guy fancying himself a supervillian, so Brock wouldn't have been a blip on the radar normally. "I don't know. Maybe we can try to work things out," Peter said lamely.

Mary Jane huffed, but eventually gave up.

"You be careful, Peter Parker," she said, shaking a finger at him.

"I'll try," he said, bending down and tying his shoelaces. Just his web-shooters were actually on him: no Spidey outfit today. Not when he was dealing with Brock. For all he knew, the mere sight of his costume might send the former reporter over the edge again and he wanted to try to get some real answers without having to pound them out of him. "Can you, uh, tell Aunt May and Gwen I had a study session at the library or something? I don't know exactly when I'll get back."

"Okay," she said. "I'll try to hold them off as long as I can."

"Thanks, MJ," Peter said, and kissed her on the cheek. "'For luck'."

Mary Jane grinned. "You're _such_ a dork. Did you just quote Star Wars at me? As _Leia_?"

"You're the bigger dork for knowing what I was even quoting in the first place," Peter opened the door. "I owe you big."

Peter's smile dropped as soon as he was on the bus line from Queens that would take him to the island; he couldn't help dropping his head into his hands and running worried fingers through his hair. It was easy to act like nothing was wrong in front of MJ, but the truth was that he was almost convinced today would end badly. He hadn't seen Brock in such a long time: the last time was months ago, when he found out that the former reporter had become the symbiote's new host.

Nevermind the fact that Peter genuinely _liked_ Eddie Brock before all that.

He still remembered that first meeting in Jameson's office. Eddie, standing up and smartly dressed in his dress shirt and black leather jacket, holding out his hand briskly and carrying himself like Peter imagined a _real _live journalist would. He didn't even flinch at Jameson, meeting him head on. The whole mess with the Quentin Beck conference, Eddie there trying to explain everything and even being so concerned about the "new kid" that he had risked his life while everyone was running for theirs just to look for _him_.

Peter could still remember how terrible it felt when he'd dragged out both Mysterio and Eddie from the Lavits, and came to the chilling realization that the blond simply wasn't _breathing_ anymore. He looked dead, eyes closed, face relaxed and skin ashen.

It was only sheer luck that Peter still, somehow, recalled the CPR they taught in phys ed once – and it was an outright miracle that it even worked at all. The stuff he said back then over Eddie was more out of desperation than any real hope for the guy, who not only inhaled Mysterio's bizarro gas but also a good lungful of smoke. It had been one of the scarier moments of Peter's life; especially when he was trying frantically to remember just _how_ many compressions you were supposed to do, praying that he was even doing it right, and looking down at the unresponsive, deathly pale reporter lying on the ground and worrying that he wouldn't wake up.

Worrying that Eddie Brock was the life he _couldn't_ save.

When Eddie finally revived, gazed up at him, still looking half-dead, and commented – of all things – on his _shirt_, Peter had felt like a huge weight had slid off his shoulders.

Once, long ago, when Eddie was still Eddie, Peter wanted to be like him.

He enjoyed tagging along. Just being with Eddie was fine: it was a lot more fun and interesting than the programming work or just solo photography. The Eddie back then used to be funny, critical of others yet always willing to be the first to criticize himself. He didn't seem to be afraid of anything, either, willing to charge ahead armed only with a camera and a press pass as if that was all he needed. But now the Eddie he knew was gone: there was only Brock. There was only Venom, twisted by hatred and rage and an alien symbiote that whispered sweet nothings and took you over, body and soul, and made you its possession until you couldn't twist free. Or, at that point, maybe didn't even _want_ to escape.

That weight Peter felt when he thought Eddie was dead? It was back.

He supposed in a way this could mean the Eddie he knew _was_ dead, but Peter wanted to hope that maybe it wasn't so irreversible. That maybe the comics and movies had it right when they talked about redemption. Maybe it was being too optimistic, but he couldn't help feeling that way all the same.

When Peter reached the emergency room, he loitered outside for a few, indecisive minutes, biting his lip and every now and then glancing at the glass doors. He had been in such a rush to see Brock and make sure the ER was still in one piece that he hadn't even come up with a convincing story about how he knew the "John Doe" brought in two days ago. Or why it would be okay for someone who _claimed_ he was a co-worker to visit. Should he just sneak in?

Probably would be best. It wasn't like it was the first time he had to take the backdoor.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Eddie still felt physically weak, but that wasn't enough to stop the need for the twice daily servicing he required.

At least they put him in a real room, he thought feverishly, because he was starting to moan load enough that it would have brought in someone to investigate if it had been the previous curtain dividers. It was embarrassing, really, that he couldn't even go a day without needing this release, and it was made worse by the fact that his Other was in no shape to do it for him. And while Eddie _did_ try to go back to the basics and jerk off like every human male out there in the world equipped with a penis, it just didn't seem to give him the same sense of temporary fulfillment that servicing by symbiote did.

It felt…empty. Unsatisfactory.

It also probably didn't help that mentally he didn't even want to jerk off. He wanted to _sleep_, dammit, but his changed body wouldn't have any of that. Shoving a hand down the flimsy, crinkly pants they gave him, Eddie took hold of his straining erection, feeling its throbbing, painful warmth in his palm, and began to try – again – to unsuccessfully masturbate, running fingers along his length and touching its sensitive head. The blond bit down another moan as he ran his fingers back down, and then up, feeling the familiar, human feeling of pleasure rising in response.

And yet it wasn't enough.

_Eddie Brock_, he thought, panting, _you are one fucked up individual._

A big problem, he decided, was that he didn't feel particularly motivated to jack off. And that, he was now finding, made it really, really hard to get anything accomplished when he plain didn't feel like it. Eddie even tried the tactic of visualizing Spider-man as _theirs_ and found his thoughts wandering off in mid-fuck. After a few more minutes of trying to stroke his erection into release, Eddie had to give it up as a lost cause, groaning aloud to himself. This wasn't working. He was too accustomed to the symbiote being there, giving and taking, invading him in every fashion, claiming him even as they planned to invade and possess the Spider. Trying to fly completely solo like this didn't cut it.

Turning in his bed, which was hard, cramped, and far too starchy for his tastes, Eddie buried his face into the pillow and groaned louder into it out of sheer frustration. No doubt a few minutes from now he'd be back to trying to get off. _Not_ trying drove him crazy, was even worse than the tease of his own feeble attempts at self-servicing, like an itch in the back of his skull that wouldn't go away unless he threw away all human inhibitions and tried to fuck his brains out.

The problem with that was he wasn't willing to start jumping people here. It was one thing with the symbiote. It was another thing entirely with anyone else.

Eddie wasn't so far gone that he'd be willing to bang strangers. It was bad enough he was apparently already willing to go for their brains in his free time.

He was still lying there catching his breath and debating another go at it when he suddenly jerked up, sensing something. A familiar presence on the roof…who…?

Oh.

Him. _He wouldn't dare,_ Eddie scowled, lying back down and resting his cheek against the pillow, keeping his eyes mostly closed and trying to tell his groin to _stop__that_ right now. _He can't be _that _stupid –_

Peter Parker proved him wrong by popping his head upside down past the window frame and looking inside.

_What does _he _want?_ Eddie tried to ignore the insistent pool of heat between his legs that only strengthened at the sight of their Spider. Did he want to gloat at their weakness? It was because of him that they were in this state anyway, and it was his fault that Eddie couldn't even accomplish the simplest of tasks and jerk off like a _normal_ man. The symbiote was almost completely dormant now, but it registered Parker's presence even so.

If he intended to finish them off, they would be ready to fight him, weakened or not. They both wanted to survive too much.

Feigning sleep, and letting his body relax, Eddie watched through half-closed eyes as Parker reached down, did something with the window and eventually slid it open, moving as quietly as possible. Slipping in and sitting on the counter under the window, toned legs curled under him, he carefully slid it closed again and set down his backpack, turning toward the bed.

"Brock," Parker whispered, approaching the bed. He paused for a long, long moment looking down at them, expression visibly upset. "Eddie, are you awake? Eddie?"

Eddie wasn't sure at first what made him snap. It wasn't the burning _need_ of the Spider he had that he couldn't satisfy. It wasn't even that or the fact that this was all Parker's fault. Or that he was bothering them when they were trying to rest.

It was the mention of his former name.

_He_ of all people _still_ insisted on calling them "Eddie Brock", as if the human known by that name was still there, was still in one piece. The Spider refused to acknowledge them as what they were now, what they would be forever! Pure _rage_ clouded Eddie's vision and he completely forgot about the need to wait and see, to rest or even attend to his body's needs. Without warning, his eyes snapped open, fixed snakelike right on Parker standing over him, and then he lurched for the teenager with a snarl, his hands already starting to morph into the oily, jet black claws as he went for his exposed throat:

"Don't _call_ us that! There is _no_ more Eddie Brock!"

They hit the floor in a violent tangle of limbs and rolled, banging into the base of the bed, Eddie the entire time hissing in fury and trying to get in a good hit so he could smack some sense into Parker once and for all. They were _Venom_! They managed to get in a rake of their claws across the boy's shoulder before he recovered from his initial surprise and started to defend himself. It wasn't much of a fight in their condition. There was no time for acrobatics and Parker didn't even bother, instead fighting rough and dirty and retaliating with a brutal headbutt that left Eddie seeing stars and reeling.

That still didn't drop him.

Parker fired off a second headbutt right on the tail of the first.

Stunned, the blond fell back, collapsing onto the floor as Parker scrambled to his feet, panting and clapping a hand to his bleeding shoulder. Eddie hadn't gotten off lightly from the brief scuffle either, his head aching like he'd been hit by a sledgehammer (closer to the truth than he would have liked to admit), and now tasting the coppery tang of his own blood in his mouth from a newly bleeding nose.

"_Stop it_, Eddie!" Parker said over them as they tried collect themselves, licking unconsciously at the flowing blood and gazing up at him. For some reason they saw _two_ Parkers and they weren't quite sure which one to focus on. "Stop it right now!"

Eddie pulled himself up into a sitting position, glaring daggers up at the Spider (well, at the one he picked as the real one, ignoring the clone image of him wavering in his vision). Their nose _hurt_, though it wasn't broken, and his head was absolutely killing him from that second headbutt. They wanted nothing more than to press the attack, show this insolent whelp why it wasn't wise to deny them the respect they were due by calling them their old name. Feeling the blood from his injured nose starting to well up on his tongue, Eddie tilted his head derisively and made a point of spitting a gob of red, green-flecked blood at Parker's foot.

The teenager didn't try to jump away; instead he looked down at the mixture of human and alien blood on his shoe, then at Eddie sprawled on the floor with something that almost resembled pity.

"I didn't come here to fight," Parker said.

Eddie sneered, reaching up and wiping at his bleeding nose with the back of his hand. "You came to gloat, we bet."

"No, I didn't."

Hard to believe. Either that or finish them off.

"I didn't come for any of that," Parker repeated. "Now can we talk like _people_ or are we going to just have to slug it out? I think we both know I'd kick your ass right now if it comes to that."

Eddie hissed between his teeth in annoyance, but had to reluctantly concede the point. If the Spider could drop them just from two headbutts – something that wouldn't have done much damage before – than it was very possible he could fight them and actually win in their present state. Those blows really did a number on them too. He didn't think they could stand up yet without falling, much less coordinate an attack, tempting as it was.

"Get it over with, Spider," Eddie said crankily. "Tell us what you want then."

Parker still looked troubled. "Why do you keep doing that?"

Eddie had no idea what he was going on about now. All he knew was that he was apparently talking to the wrong Parker-image and hastily turned his attention onto the right one. They looked at the _right_ Parker blankly.

"You keep saying 'we'," Parker said. "Eddie, there's only you. There is no 'we'."

"How we talk about what we _are_ bothers you?" Eddie couldn't help a self-deprecating laugh, leering up at the teenager standing over him. "Something so trivial?"

"Yes, it does happen to bother me because creepy stuff bothers me. Do you even know how utterly _insane_ you sound right now?"

Eddie couldn't prevent the _uf-uf-uf_ of another laugh from bubbling up, throaty and not quite his – it was the closest thing a symbiote could do to show amusement. "And what makes you think we care, Spider? We are _very_ happy with what we are. You don't know what you gave up, you stupid fool."

Parker went silent, and stepped back to allow Eddie to finally get to his feet. The blond pushed himself up with the aid of the bed, annoyed that his legs shook and new stars burst into his vision, but at least he was able to stagger over to the lone stool in the small room and sit down, turning his back on the boy and letting him know that they would honor this temporary truce – for now. Eddie sat down, resting his hands on his knees and for a moment trying to wipe away the rest of the blood leaking from his nose.

Relaxing slightly, Parker sat down on the edge of the bed after making sure he secured the door with some webbing and ensured them some privacy.

"I came to talk," the Spider finally said.

Eddie grunted in disbelief, tending to his nose by wiping at it with his increasingly bloodied hands and occasionally with his flimsy shirt, glowering at the teenager the whole time if he could burn holes just by sheer dint of willpower.

Parker crossed his arms over his chest. "I want to know what you were doing there the other day in that park. I found you naked and unconscious. I had hoped…"

Should they tell him about Sandman and Silver Bitch? "Hoped?"

The boy flushed, embarrassed. "I'd hoped that maybe you were normal again," he said quickly, the words rushed together and sounding flustered. "I didn't see the symbiote. Okay, you happy?"

Eddie simply stared dumbly at Parker, for a moment not comprehending the absurdity of the boy's words, and then threw back his head and _really_ laughed this time.

"You…thought _us_…." Eddie found it hard to speak normally, grinning, fangs bared. "Oh Spider, you really _are_ one of a kind, aren't you? So hopelessly optimistic!"

"Stop calling me that," Parker said peevishly. "I'm not your 'Spider' for the last time. I have a real name, you know."

Eddie fixed Parker with a bloodshot eye. "And so do we."

Parker sighed, getting frustrated. "I'm not calling you 'Venom'. You're always going to be 'Eddie Brock' to me whether you like it or not."

"Then you will always be 'Spider' to us."

"I – okay, whatever. _Not_ going to argue about this right now," Parker said, visibly taking a breath to focus himself. "Well? What were you doing there when I found you?"

Eddie shrugged. "What business is it of yours?"

"I brought you here, Eddie!" Parker flared. "I didn't have to, but I did!"

"So one act of goodwill binds us to you, is that it?" Eddie asked sarcastically. "Enslaved by your _charity_?" The blond drawled the word out with obvious contempt.

Parker met his eyes. "This wasn't the first time and you know it."

_That_ shut them up. Yes, yes they remembered all too well that first incident at the Lavits. Saving Eddie Brock's life that day did merit some kind of favor in return, it seemed, and for a long second Eddie just stared at Parker, deciding how much to share. Not all, of course, because he mustn't be warned too early about the mating that needed – _must_ – be done. Eddie looked down, fiddling with part of his torn shirt in a bloodied hand and toying with the folds before looking up:

"The Man of Sand," he spat, hating every moment of revealed information to despised, desired Parker. "And the Silver Bitch. They did this to us, put us in such a pitiful state that even you are a threat. They hunted you and then tried to hunt us. The Silver Bitch hit us with some kind of strange weapon and weakened us to where escape was necessary."

Parker looked as if he was wondering whether Eddie was lying or not. "So that's how far you got? That park?"

"Yes."

"I think I know Sand Dude already," Parker said, thinking. "What about this Silver…"

"Bitch," Eddie supplied helpfully. "White bodysuit, silver hair. Man of Sand called her a 'crazy bitch', we do believe. So: Silver Bitch."

"Figures," Parker muttered under his breath.

Eddie shifted in his seat. They still needed to find a way to service themselves, but now the idea of doing it in private looked more and more appealing…and _not_ in a place where the Spider thought he could come and go as he pleased just because he got in a lucky hit today. "Leave," he hissed. "Or we will."

"Just one more thing," said Parker quietly. "I just want to know if the real Eddie is really gone. I don't get why you keep saying 'we' if that was the case."

The blonde opened his mouth to tell Parker just how dead wrong he was, but found he had no words left. They didn't want to talk about this, not to anyone, not to Parker. The situation was…complicated. And what did Parker care anyway? Why the need to be so nosy? Glancing over suspiciously at the boy, they saw that he was watching them with open pity now.

"Eddie, if you're even still in there, I just wanted to know if you thought this really was the only choice you had."

"I…it…" Eddie seemed to shake himself under Peter Parker's scrutiny, as if struggling to come out of a daze. It was hard to tell what was what or where he ended and his Other began. Why did it matter so much? He couldn't imagine a time without that intimate presence in his mind or coiling in his body, owning a place even in his very bones just as it did everywhere else that was his to give.

He wavered. "Yes, I-I think was."

It seemed a lot more certain earlier in his mind with just the symbiote, but now he was torn. Parker was just sowing more confusion; that was what he was good at, after all, and now they were starting to get angry again now that they saw through his games. Either one of them would leave or there would be a corpse on the floor in a couple of minutes.

Eddie abruptly stood up and glared at Parker.

"You always were good at diversions, boy," he said, eyebrows drawn together, face still a ghastly mask of blood despite his attempts to clean himself up. They turned and mounted the wall, then the ceiling before the window, presenting their back on Parker. "But you won't separate us _that_ easily. If you follow us, we will stop you by killing those civilians you so love, starting with your precious Mary Jane Watson."

With that said, Eddie drew back a fist, the symbiote rippling black over his arm, and punched the window. Glass shattered outward as Eddie crawled through and then bounded up out of sight, ascending the outer wall and disappearing into the deepening evening.

They were done here.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Running to the window, Peter Parker watched Brock take off, knowing that he would carry out his threat if he was followed. He didn't dare risk pursuing the former reporter even though he was weak enough that he could probably be dragged back.

_Eddie… _

Was it hopeless? Peter didn't know. He _did_ know he was seriously creeped out: while he did see Eddie sitting there, speaking eerily with Eddie's voice, he knew that he wasn't dealing with the man he used to know (and it wasn't just the creepy way he kept saying "we" either). The Eddie Brock he knew wouldn't have tried to attack him, for starters, much less tried with his _bare hands_. Especially unnerving was the expression when he'd attacked him, ready to kill, his face twisted with such open hatred that Peter hadn't even tried to fight back at first just from shock alone. The pure rage that he saw on Brock's face at that moment was nothing short of terrifying; if the blond could have, he probably would have tried his damned best to tear him apart.

Most of the jokers he'd fought wanted to either hurt him badly or just plain try to kill him, but he hadn't seen anything that had matched Brock's look today.

It was hard not to feel depressed. The meeting hadn't gone off as well as he would have hoped, and starting it off with a fight? Yeah, _not_ the best of ideas, but Peter needed to defend himself. He felt a bit guilty about hitting Brock like that, but he needed to be stopped before it got too out of hand. All signs seemed to point to the fact that the symbiote problem was irreversible, but he wasn't going to just take it and leave it like that_. He's got to still be in there,_ Peter thought, picking up his backpack and wincing at the bleeding claw wounds on his shoulder. _For a second it seemed like I was getting through to him._

Maybe he was just a sucker believing in misplaced hope. To tell the truth, Peter was ready to think it a lost cause until Brock actually told him about Sandman and that silver lady – and he hadn't even had to punch it out of him. All things considered, Brock _had_ answered him surprisingly freely.

Maybe it wasn't as hopeless as it seemed.

"Is everything okay in there?"

Peter turned, and watched as the doorknob jiggled, rattling as someone on the other end tried to get into the room.

"Mr. Doe? Please open the door!"

_I think that's my cue,_ he decided, and after a moment, let himself out of the broken window and back up onto the roof. Wouldn't be too smart to stick around, especially once they got through the door – or his webbing dissolved – only to discover that their mystery patient suddenly upped and left through the window. It wouldn't look good, not when some of Brock's blood splashed all over the floor from that encounter and him still standing here with some of that blood on his own clothes. _That, and me and cops? We don't mix. _

Peter beat a retreat from the ER, going back to the streets once he was a few blocks away. Compared to earlier, he had some leads, thanks to Brock: Sand Dude was still out there and apparently had picked up a girlfriend to take along with him on his idea of a romantic date.

_There can't be that many people that look like what Brock said though._ She must have been the crazy lady who shot him up with all those dart things the other day. _How cute_, Peter thought, annoyed. A crazy lady to go with a crazy dude made out of _sand_, of all things. Somehow the pairing fit. Maybe the Bugle would have some more information on them.

Peter still found himself thinking about Brock, though.

Even if he _wasn't_ out to kill him or his friends and family immediately, it still came down to it that he didn't know where the man went or just what his agenda even was. Or why Crazy Lady and Sand Dude were after him in the first place. To top it off, Peter still had a ton of homework due and he hadn't even gotten started. Not to mention his shoulder was all messed up (thanks to Brock) and he couldn't exactly go home on the bus with a bloody, shredded shirt and _not_ draw some unwanted attention.

Great.

He still had his costume in his backpack, more for an emergency than anything else, but swinging back home with an injured shoulder didn't look too fun – but it was either that or bus home looking like he'd murdered someone. Ducking into an alley and stepping gingerly over the trash and questionable puddles of _something_ that wasn't water, Peter sat down on a plastic crate. He didn't change immediately, staring down at the crumpled costume in his hands, running his fingers over the slightly raised webbing over the familiar red and blue fabric, and unable to shake that ugly look on Eddie Brock's face.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(The next day)

The one good thing about being what everyone thought was a "common crook" was that you developed the small-time connections where it counted. You also learned to make friends fast and get buddy-buddy with even the most random of people. There was that…and there was also just listening into the proper channels – rumors, gossip, you name it, he paid attention to it – and sifting through the bullshit about alien abductions to more down to earth matters.

Rumor usually had a grain of truth in there anyway. It was what brought Flint Marko to this emergency room, ditching Silver Sable to snoop around on his own, with his way. Let her keep stalking that immature kid in his red and blue tights if she thought it'd help. He'd rather do what he always did best and follow up on that vital difference between rumor and truth. _Rumor_ had it that there was some kind of case with a John Doe over the weekend, something about this man being brought in by Spider-man – and before the weekend was out, mysteriously vanishing. Only it wasn't without any trace, which wouldn't help much, or drawn as much attention. What did catch his attention was the rumor that there had been some kind of fight, and there was blood.

_Weird_ blood.

Now he didn't fancy himself a science man, but if this mystery John Doe was their target, then even his blood could probably be useful to Fisk. Flint Marko approached the middle-aged receptionist manning the head desk.

"Hey, miss," he said. "I'm sorry t'bother you, but I was wondering if you could help me."

The receptionist looked up from her computer. "Are you here for visitation?"

"Yeah. Only…" Flint trailed off, looking worried. He thought about how it would feel if that crazy fucker Deadpool ended up in New York. It wasn't that hard to look worried. "I've been jumpin' around from ER to hospitals all night looking' for my sister's boyfriend. He went missin' the other day after a fight they had and my sister's almost outta her mind from worry. Kinda had a drug problem. I heard Spider-man brought a man here, so I'm hopin' that's him…"

The name of the game was confidence: act like you belonged and you _did_ belong. Flint didn't fault the woman for falling for it. She wouldn't be the first or the last. That was the problem with nice, respectable people.

The receptionist frowned and stood up. "He did bring a John Doe in the other day, Mr…?"

"William."

"I'm sorry to say there's been a bit of a – a complication. Please, come this way. Jane, I'll be right back," the receptionist said to her partner at the counter, and escorted Flint down the halls. "He went missing around noon yesterday, Mr. William. We don't know exactly what happened, other than that it looks like he could have been abducted."

"_What_!"

"We called the police, but by the time we got the doors opened, he was gone," the woman stopped at the door – or what remained of it. It looked like a ram had caved it in (probably those police rams), and the room itself looked like a war zone: blood was splattered all over the floor and part of the bed, bent at an unnatural angle as if something hit it and hit it _hard_. A chilly breeze drifted in from the broken window at the end of the room, which itself was still cordoned off by yellow tape. Despite feeling like he was onto something, Flint knew that he still had to play it careful.

Best not to sound triumphant. Flint thought of Silver Sable carrying out her threat about ripping his balls off and found it easier to go the right couple of shades of pale.

"Oh my God," Flint said, shaken.

"The police found some kind of webbing on the door before it dissolved. They think Spider-man did it…but that doesn't make sense, he brought him in."

Flint was going to need a description. While he didn't know what the fuck happened here, what he did know was that this black mutant had probably escaped. Maybe Spider-man tried to stop him. He took a risk: "Was this John Doe tall? Like, this high?" he held out his hand at the height he guessed the creature had been. "Has a bit of muscle on him, pretty good shape?"

The receptionist nodded. "Yes, about that height. Tall man around 6'3'', probably in his early thirties. Short blond hair, gray-green eyes."

"That's definitely him. How was he when he was in?"

"Disoriented. He didn't seem to know how he got here…I'm so sorry we couldn't help you more."

"Would it be okay if I looked inside the room? Maybe he left a hint."

The woman bit her lip, and glanced over his shoulder. She lowered her voice. "I was told not to let anyone disturb the crime scene. But…you can take a quick look. Please don't move anything."

Flint had to give her credit. Despite her gullibility, she wasn't going to leave him in the room alone. She stood by the door, her eyes following him as Flint ducked under the cordon tape and carefully moved about the room, making a point of examining everything even though he only had eyes for the blood on the floor. Finally crouching down, his back to the receptionist, he reached down with one hand, keeping his head pointedly turned away, and discreetly scrapped off some of the dark red stain (which, for some reason, was dotted with curious green flecks) on a piece of glass before standing up. The glass had disappeared by the time he turned around, his shoulders drooping with defeat.

"I don't see anything," Flint said. He glanced at the broken window as he stepped carefully across the crime scene and ducked back under the cordon. "I'm not from around here, but I was wonderin' if you could direct me to th' nearest police station? I better see if they found anything."

"Of course. This way please."

Flint fell behind the receptionist, and hid his smirk. Today had been very productive: he not only had a blood sample, he also had a description, enough to tell him several interesting things. For starters, apparently this mutant looked and acted reasonably enough like a normal man to fool the staff here when he _wasn't_ a big, drooling monster with those longass fangs of his. Now that Flint had a real description of their mutant, he decided that following up Silver Sable's idea about finding out Spider-man's identity wasn't such a bad one. This description and the blood sample would help narrow down any of Spider-man's acquaintances instead of having to sift through each and every person the kid playing superhero might have come in contact with..

Still, he wasn't about to act like the silver bitch and just walk out now that he had what he wanted. _He _had been raised right. Flint Marko made sure to thank the receptionist politely for her help before leaving – she'd helped him in ways she couldn't even imagine.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Weakness was still in their blood, but Eddie Brock knew he would recover.

The incident with Peter Parker hadn't helped though: between being pumped full of sedatives and then getting hit in the head _twice_ in the space of twenty-four hours, Eddie was left feeling rattled. He hoped he didn't have a concussion. The symbiote would probably take care of it if he did, but that was still kind of a big "if" there considering he didn't know for sure the extent of his Other's abilities. Nursing what he knew would be a spectacular bruise pretty soon, and trying to figure out how he would explain it at the Globe when he went in tomorrow morning, Eddie lowered himself gingerly onto the bed of the apartment. They were a mess. _He_ was a mess.

But being so close to the Spider, to Parker, was so maddening! Eddie still remembered the encounter perfectly well – being near Parker honed their recall – but he still wasn't sure what to make of it. Somewhere in the back of his mind Eddie knew he was what the kid said, that he was probably certifiably crazy, and yet he couldn't find it in himself to care (much). What did it matter? He was one with his Other and eventually he would be one with their Spider as well. What did it matter if he had a few screws loose?

Why did Parker care so much in the first place?

All Eddie knew was that reason seemed to fly right out the damn window when he got close to the kid. Like being near Parker served to remind them of all their rage and failures, remind them of their hatred and longing even though they knew they couldn't kill him. Despite all that had happened to him, Eddie used to think he was still somewhat adjusted, all things considered…only the encounter yesterday proved _that_ wrong. That, topped off with the recent news that he was now apparently a cannibal, gave him a good deal to chew over in his head.

After a moment of restlessly lying on the bed, Eddie pushed himself to his feet and paced about the confines of the room. What to do? It wasn't yet time for the union with the Spider and while he couldn't deny his own lust for being _one_, Eddie had to admit that trying to mate with Peter Parker was not only pretty gay, it was also probably highly illegal. _Let's face it: he's still jailbait_, Eddie thought. And that wasn't even counting that they doubted he would consent to all this while it was going down. While Eddie knew that the usual human laws didn't apply to him or his Other, he _had_ grown up with these views and he couldn't deny that looking at it from a step back _did_ make him feel a bit apprehensive.

The symbiote slid languidly through the back of his skull. _Don't concern yourself with these petty details, Host. We have done this before and will do it again. _

"You're right," Eddie said, drawing comfort and strength in the solid confidence he could feel emanating from the symbiote. Put that way, it didn't seem _so_ bad.

_We need to deal with our _other _enemies, however, before we attempt this._

Oh yes. Sandman and the silver bitch. Eddie agreed wholeheartedly that something had to be done about them; either drive them away or kill them. Eddie stopped his restless pacing, resting a hand on the scratched windows and feeling the chilly glass against his skin.

Until the enemies on those fronts were gone, they couldn't get down to business. Eddie felt the increasing effects of the symbiote's need every day. Having it prolonged any longer than was necessary seemed tantamount to torture.

Eddie felt like shit, but he resolved to go back to the Globe tonight anyway. Every day mattered. Sensing his intent, the symbiote slid over his bare body, covering naked skin and forming his clothes: today an unassuming black turtleneck and jeans, with a matching scarf. Having his Other enveloping him like this felt good, real good, and it was _almost_ possible to forget that his head was still killing him from Parker's damn headbutt.

Asshole.

Eddie hadn't thought it possible to both hate someone's guts and yet still _want_ him at the same time. A mental snort. This definitely wasn't love. He knew it to be wrong, perverted, but he couldn't deny he felt _something_ for Parker.

He certainly wasn't going to websling his way to the _Daily Globe_. Leaving the apartment, he waved down a taxi. Once inside, Eddie leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes, feeling the car rumble back to life and pull into traffic. There were probably some employees still at the offices, but he could probably slip in relatively unnoticed. Eddie was impatient to get back to work digging around in the Globe's Archives for information on Sandman and his psychotic girlfriend, even more motivated. The memory of his inability to jerk off like a normal human being hit him harder than he would have liked, even though he knew it was something small. It was the last fucking straw.

Despite his bond with the symbiote, being unable to do the simplest of tasks made Eddie feel…less than human.

Like he couldn't control himself.

Eddie flushed as he recalled how he'd been in the emergency room, how he kept trying to service himself over and over even though it clearly wasn't working. Just like a broken record, he thought with disgust.

Opening gray eyes, Eddie glanced out the window, gazing up at the skyscrapers rising up into the night sky, stained a purple-pink from Manhattan's light pollution. They wanted control, craved it. Touching the cool surface of the symbiote in its perfect mimicry of a black scarf and feeling the thrum of _life_ in it, Eddie's face set with determination. Maybe he was subhuman right now, but they knew that it could be corrected.

_We're a perfect match, Eddie Brock._ That was one of the very first things the symbiote said the morning after they bonded, when he woke up and felt _something_ in him that certainly wasn't there before. As a Host, Eddie was supposed to be more than human now, and yet he found himself in the opposite position. _It's all the Spider's fault_, Eddie thought angrily, glaring at the flashing screens of Times Square. While the boy was in no small part responsible for their creation (Eddie was all too aware that he was the symbiote's second choice, a definite step down from Parker), the blond didn't feel like he should be grateful to him.

He was their weakness, after all. He was why Eddie was like this in the first place. He was why Eddie was little more than an animal going about the motions of being a human – even in something as seemingly trivial as sex - if his symbiote was incapacitated.

Peter Parker was the key to righting that. The union with him would give them the control they desperately wanted.

**To be continued...**

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Unfortunately, my spring break is almost over. Updates might go back to being kind of sparse. xD:

I've a sheepish admission: I, uh, whenever I write Venom/Brock speaking as Venom...I admit I imagine it like the old school 90's cartoon Venom saying the lines because I'm lame like that..


	8. A Not So Secret Identity

**Black Sustenance**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: Naturally I don't own Spider-man.  
**Author Notes**: Quickish (for me) update. I just wanted to thank everyone who reads this random story. I also want to thank to those who reviewed: while I don't write for reviews (I write since I want to see where the story goes and because I enjoy writing), I appreciate them a lot. Thank you both for reading and reviewing.

Whew, just saw Spider-man 3. Kind of have mixed feelings about it: mostly that there wasn't enough Brock/Venom, although I did like (mostly) what was there of him.. Anyway same old story: while I do ship Venom/Spider-man, plot comes first.

_Italics_ for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote  
**Archive**: Sure, just ask.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X  
Black Sustenance  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(A Not-So-Secret Identity)

Tuesdays were the worst, in Peter Parker's opinion. Just a day after Monday but not even at the halfway point of Wednesday, Tuesdays also meant homeroom. True, his friends were there – okay, so he only had two in all of Midtown High – but that also meant sharing a room for an hour with Kong and Flash. And while he liked Gwen, her being around also meant that he couldn't tell Mary Jane right now about the weird feeling he had yesterday when he went out on a patrol.

Maybe he was going crazy, but he could _swear_ someone was watching him patrol as Spider-man.

Yesterday it felt like someone's eyes were on him. But when he turned or stopped webslinging, he couldn't see anyone…it was seriously, seriously creepy. While he was used to stopping the conversation whenever he waltzed into a room or otherwise showed up and did his Spidey thing (being such a snappy dresser and all), he usually didn't feel like he was being _watched_. Not like this. Not like someone was stalking him and taking _notes_.

Again, just creepy. And weird.

Peter returned to the trigonometry homework, glancing at Gwen and Mary Jane. The two girls had their heads bent together over the same homework, Gwen working on a problem and comparing her answers to her friend's every now and then. Unlike him, they were focused on what everyone was supposed to be doing. A glance around showed that Flash was busy defacing one of the school's books, Kong slouched in his chair and caught up in another of his comics (a muscle-bound idiot dressed as a _bat_ of all things on the cover), with the rest of the class at least _pretending_ to look like they were being productive. Staring down at his own trig work, which had just his name at the top of the page and nothing else, Peter frowned.

Why couldn't he just sit still and do this? This was just simple math. He was _good_ at math stuff. If he could look at his dad's adhesive formulas and come up with his webbing solution at his age, then trig should be simple, a walk in the park…But the words and equations just seemed to lose all meaning when he stared at them and it was hard to concentrate on _why_ the law of cosines was important in the first place.

It came back to the feeling of being watched and followed.

It was bad enough having the feeling that somehow, someday, Peter was going to pop a seam in a very uncomfortable spot in his costume. The thought that he was being stalked just made him feel dirty. It wasn't like he had any solid proof though, aside from the feeling of eyes burning on his back. _Maybe it's Brock_, Peter thought with a shiver. _He's loopy enough to think it's funny_.

By the time homeroom was over, he managed not only to date his trig homework but also write down the number of the first problem.

"Oooh, that's a real start there, cowboy," Gwen said, leaning over with a clink of her bracelets. "Better slow down before you get whiplash from all that hard work."

Peter rolled his eyes, stuffing the paper into a folder as the other students filed out. "Ha ha. Cute."

Mary Jane peered around Gwen. "You didn't even start? We're almost finished over here."

"I was just thinking," Peter said. Gwen opened her mouth to tease him but he ran over her before she could get a word out. "And yes, I _do_ think every now and then about stuff _other_ than math. Don't look all surprised, Gwen."

"Will you stop reading my mind?" the blonde girl grumped. "You take all the fun out of it."

"Maybe we can work on it together later," said Mary Jane, meaningfully quirking an eyebrow.

Gwen gathered up her books. "'Work'. Yeah, this's getting a bit too steamy for me, if you get my drift," she slung her backpack over one shoulder and suddenly grinned mischievously. "Keep it PG, kids."

And with that she reached around and gave MJ a friendly slap on the butt, winked, and left homeroom.

Mary Jane rubbed at her butt ruefully. "She enjoys that way too much."

"I don't know, _I_ kinda thought it was ho – hey!" Peter dodged Mary Jane's swat with her book.

With a sigh, the redhead stuffed the trig book back into her own backpack. They were one of the last to leave, with about a few minutes to go before the lunch period. All Peter knew was that he was probably going to spend a good amount of it checking to see how his shoulder was doing, but he still wanted to keep it under wraps. MJ still didn't know and wouldn't know he got injured, if he had any say on it.

"So what's the deal?" Mary Jane suddenly switched subjects. "I mean, you usually finish your homework before homeroom's even over and you didn't even get started."

Peter shrugged and suppressed a wince – _not_ the best thing to do with a clawed up shoulder. "You'll probably think I'm crazy," he lowered his voice, "but I think someone's been following me around since Monday. When I'm, uh, in my _jammies_."

"Your what – oh." Mary Jane suddenly realized what he was talking about and whispered back. "Well, they _are_ kind of noticeable."

Peter ducked his head. "It's just this weird feeling during then. Not like before. It's like…like someone's been tracking me around but when I look around, I don't see anyone."

"Fan club?" Mary Jane quirked a half-grin.

"That'd be both cool _and_ creepy, but no. I'm being serious. It's really distracting."

Mary Jane frowned. "Maybe you should keep low? Just for now."

"Tempted to," Peter still didn't feel much better. He hadn't felt the eyes on him today, but he was certain he'd at least been tracked to Queens. If anything, he'd have to steer clear of his house and Midtown High if he ever did go out on another patrol.

Or at least find out if it really was even Brock in the first place. Did seem like something he'd do, but Peter thought he'd also be able to get his kicks by actually showing his face when he did his stalking – let him know whose handiwork he was seeing. Seemed more his style, now that apparently being crazy was fashionable and this year's new black. Still, that didn't quite make sense. Why track him down as Spider-man_? I mean, he knows where I live. And he claimed last time to have all my memories from the symbiote, so…_Yeah. Brock probably knew the color of his underwear, nevermind just where he lived in the first place.

Did seem kinda pointless to stalk Spider-man instead of cutting to the chase.

After excusing himself and telling MJ he'd catch up later, Peter locked the door to the bathroom. The staff restroom here was basically a glorified handicap bathroom with one mirror and one toilet, but it had some privacy and without the resident school bullies trying their best to give their latest victim a swirly the next stall over. Setting down his backpack, Peter half-sat on the sink and gingerly peeled off his shirt, carefully doing the same with the gauze he'd taped over the wounds.

Yeah, _that_ was going to sting in a bit.

Craning his neck, Peter tried to assess the damage. Thankfully he was a fast healer, but that didn't change the fact it still hurt in the meantime. And every now and then it seemed to want to bleed this really crazy yellow discharge that was totally gross. Considering who was responsible, Peter supposed he was lucky the jagged, bloody claw marks were healing at all. He'd probably have a pretty good set of scars, but he was more concerned with trying to explain them to Aunt May than anything else.

Gritting his teeth, he leaned over the sink and began running some cold water, cupping some in his hand and dribbling it over his injured shoulder for a bit before he began cleaning at what he could with some spare gauze he snuck into his backpack. The chill of the water felt a lot better, but the fact he was poking around at the ragged edges of the clawed skin canceled out that relief. Peter wasn't particularly surprised to see the gauze was stained pink and yellow when he finished, awkwardly reaching around to apply fresh bandages.

At least that was over.

Peter balanced himself on the sink, hands on both sides of it as he stared at the mirror. A wiry kid with dark spots under his eyes stared back, looking somehow tired even though he'd slept pretty well. Well enough, despite having run his shoulder through a meat grinder.

MJ had a point when she said to stay low. And he would, for a day or so.

But any longer just didn't feel right. People out there still needed help and it didn't matter to them whether he _thought_ he was getting stalked or not.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(Wednesday)

"Hun, wake up. Were you here all night?"

Eddie groaned and raised his head from the keyboard, knowing he probably had an imprint of the keys on his cheek and not caring how stupid it looked. He gazed up blearily at the woman bending down over him; he still didn't know everyone's names, but he did at least know that the gossip columnist - a woman with at least a good decade over him that showed - offering him a cup of coffee was called Kat Farrell. Or Cathy. Close enough. He was pretty sure she was Cathy though.

"Yeah," Eddie said, rubbing at his eyes, and gratefully accepted the coffee. "I guess I just got caught up in my work."

Cathy glanced at his screen as the blond leaned back, working out the kinks from falling asleep with a keyboard for a pillow. "Trying to get the scoop on this Sandman guy, huh?"

Eddie sipped at the warm cup in his hands. It was straight up black coffee and had the characteristically unpleasant, bitter burn to it that served to wake him up further. The caffeine probably wouldn't do anything, not with his Other's distaste for foreign chemicals like that, but at least he wasn't drooling all over the _Daily Globe's_ computers.

"I thought he was going to be old news, but I guess not," Cathy shrugged, and gave Eddie a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Maybe you should go home and get some rest, Brock. You look beat."

He shook his head, forcing himself to take another sip of the coffee. "No, I'm okay now. I just lost track of the time. Workaholic," he said, offering a tired grin over the rim of his cup. "You know how it is."

"Don't we all. Did you find anything that'll help?"

"A bit, yeah," Eddie said. "I'm just about done for today."

There wasn't too much on this Sandman, only that he'd been identified as "Flint Marko" (an alias, probably), was in his late thirties, and that he operated primarily in Manhattan, keeping a relatively low profile until that first run in with their Spider a few weeks ago. Eddie rubbed at his eyes again as Cathy wandered off, staring at the computer screen before him and willing it to stay in focus. The name Flint Marko had circulated around the underground for a bit and he'd finally traced it by now to some rich bastard called Wilson Fisk. That left the question of what next.

Fisk was high profile. If they went and killed him, they'd probably draw too much unwanted attention to themselves. The last thing they wanted was to get on S.H.I.E.L.D's radar.

While they were powerful as Venom, they were still a fledgling host-symbiote pair. Enough numbers and weapons and they would go down.

_Fisk's off limits…for now._ Eddie rested his chin in one hand, frowning at the craggy but overall _normal_ face of Flint Marko on the screen. They still saw red when they remembered how Marko had been standing over their Spider and while they knew he was only doing it to bait them, it was still infuriating. Common sense dictated that Marko didn't have any real claim on Parker, but the symbiote's instinctual response – now also Eddie's – said otherwise. On the most basic, gut level, they simply saw Marko as another competing male for the right to possess the Spider.

Incidentally, they weren't too big on sharing.

Still, Marko would be tricky to deal with. How to kill a man made out of sand? They could probably absorb some of him, but Eddie wasn't sure how much they could take or if that would even put much of a dent in the meddling fuck. Not to mention they had to keep their heads down after the incident at the Library, both from the cops, Marko _and_ his crazyass girlfriend. So it looked like they were stuck playing errand boy for the _Daily Globe_ until Marko made the mistake of showing himself again. Or, preferably, Silver Bitch did first: unlike Marko, she stood out. Too beautiful, that long platinum hair couldn't hide in a crowd, and she didn't bother to slouch or mingle with the "normals" like Marko probably did.

The way she carried herself, from what he remembered, would be a dead giveaway. She felt pride in herself and carried herself with her back ramrod straight.

Even in a crowd, he was sure they could pick her out. After then it was just a matter of strolling up and snapping her neck.

Yawning, Eddie pushed away from the desk and stood up to stretch, rubbing at an eye. Getting rest was probably a good idea, but it felt somehow wasteful, like he could be spending more time pouring over the online files and hard copies than trying to catch cat naps here and there. His new boss still expected him to show up to that retarded Fantastic Four science…whatever, _some_ kind of demonstration Saturday night and he couldn't blow it off without awkward questions being asked. At least all he had to do was take pictures. Cracking his back, Eddie stared out the window of the high-rise office and tried to focus.

That damn bruise on his forehead was almost gone.

They knew Peter Parker would be there: the _Daily Bugle_ would be there and so would that boy, taking _their_ former job, taking what was _theirs_ and laughing at them the whole time because he was half their age and _still_ coming out on top. Eddie seethed with fury and open, ugly jealousy. Parker might have thought he won, but he'd be singing a different tune once they dealt with Sandman. He'd be wishing that he'd never spurned them, rejected them! Eddie found his hands were clenched into fists, trembling with rage. It was the symbiote's anger and yet it was his as well, like looking from two different eyes and knowing them to be both part of him.

This level of anger, of jealousy, wasn't something Eddie had been used to, but now it felt natural. _Good_, even.

It was what kept them going even though the human part of him wanted to just curl in a corner and give up.

It was weakness. And the reason they were weak? Peter. Parker.

Sandman and his bitch were just obstacles to the real goal. While Eddie knew that his emotions weren't as stable as they used to be, the combination of need and hatred for the Spider kept them driven.

The moment of intense rage passed, leaving Eddie wide awake and more than a little wired. Adrenaline was still pumping in his veins; he felt on edge, as if he was prepping for a nonexistent fight, and ready for _anything_, his heart rate increasing like he'd just run a marathon. This had been coming and going in the past, but he'd begun noticing that these rushes – for lack of a better name – seemed to come when he was feeling tired or particularly unmotivated. Something about it seemed a bit shady, but he supposed that so long as he could get his work done…It didn't matter why it happened. Or how.

The only thing that mattered was their continued survival and Spider-man.

_Maybe I missed something in the hard copies_, Eddie thought. That was possible, he'd only skimmed them last night and all this morning without really registering what he read. It was a human failing to have productivity decrease the more fatigue increased – they were inversely proportional, his Other was learning. The symbiote seemed to absorb information like a sponge, especially where care of its human Host was involved.

Heading back to the desk, Eddie sat down and began pouring over the files before him. Not only was he wired, but he was also starting to get horny again. Fighting the urge to just shove a hand down his pants, the blond focused on the task ahead of him.

They still had work to do.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(Thursday)

There was not enough progress to make any real leads Tuesday, and while Silver Sable wasn't actually _worried_ yet, she kept in mind that the clock was ticking. Time wasn't with them. It didn't help matters when there hadn't been _any_ Spider-man sightings Wednesday either, leaving the mercenary to wonder if perhaps he'd figured out he was being followed and decided to lay low for a bit. Flint Marko hunkered down in the cramped van next to her, looking very much out of place and scowling. The man seemed to scowl a lot. Apparently that was his default expression for everything.

"You sure he's from Queens?" Marko asked.

Silver Sable didn't look up from the pistol she was cleaning, running a tiny wire brush through the barrel. "Not only have we tracked him there, but the media has also confirmed that he's been seen in the vicinity of Midtown High School more than once. We just need to narrow down which student he is."

"Yeah, he didn't strike me as staff. Seemed kinda…immature."

"We know his general height and body type as well as his voice," Silver Sable said. "This could all be solved if we just grabbed him again, you know."

"You got tranqs?"

"Not today."

"Then no, we're not grabbin' him. You can't jus' go into a high school an' start kidnappin' kids anyway."

Silver Sable rolled her eyes, cleaning out the pistol's slide. For Marko's tough guy act, he was surprisingly squeamish about certain things. Still, he did pull through, occasionally: he had gotten a pretty good description of the mutant's "human" shape, and they could probably narrow his identity down once they had Spider-man's. It would be a done deal. It was putting down this mutant that had Silver Sable concerned. Sedatives seemed to work, but they simply took too long to take effect. Tasers? They hadn't tried electricity and while this mutant had a thick skin, an electroshock weapon might be something to use. Maybe a remote stun-belt.

No, it couldn't just be that though. That would have to stun him long enough they could tranq him.

Assuming they even got to that point and could get the drop on him when he _wasn't_ a gigantic, slobbering beast.

Currently they were camped outside Midtown High. The van was dressed up as a moving van carrying desks for the school, but the insides had been gutted, and were now filled with power cords, assorted monitoring equipment, herself and Flint Marko looking like he'd rather be anywhere _but_ sitting next to her. That suited her just fine – better to have a man who knew respect than trying coping in a feel just because she had a pair of breasts.

Silver Sable had finished with the pistol and begun reassembling it, wondering if Spider-man would be a no-show again, when one of the Wild Pack members dressed in her civvies phoned in:

"_Got a visual, over_."

Marko leaned over, interested, as Silver Sable focused on the tinny voice on the other end. "What is it?"

"_Spider-man sighted approaching the gym…moving…Group of students heading to the south track now. He's probably changed out into civvies, but I believe he's in the group_. _I'll try to get some photos to transmit for you._"

Silver Sable looked up, lips pursed. "Remember we've got a general idea of his weight and height range. Don't bother with the jocks."

"_Roger._"

The next few minutes seemed to crawl by. While not exactly prone to unwarranted optimism, Silver Sable was sure this was _it_. And while she wasn't willing to risk running this kid's face through the databases and attracting all kinds of unwanted attention (such as S.H.I.E.L.D), there were other ways to get a name to a face.

There was a reason Flint Marko had the Midtown High yearbook on his lap, looking just as out of place as he did.

Sometimes you had to resort to the painfully simple methods to get the same answers. It wasn't quite as flashy or as technologically masturbatory as a face recognition scan, but it worked and didn't leave tracks.

Her handheld beeped quietly as the plant, faithful and efficient as ever, began transmitting the data: she'd been so thoughtful as to include both stills and some video with limited audio. Marko leaned close, enough to be invading personal space, but she ignored it for the sake of the job as they concentrated on the handheld. Silver Sable flipped through the images before going to the video and audio files.

It was when a thin kid with a head of shaggy brown hair was on screen that Marko visibly reacted.

"That's him!" Marko exclaimed. Silver Sable replayed the clip: "He's got th' same voice. Christ, he's jus' a little runt."

"You sure that's him?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely," Marko grunted. He began flipping open the yearbook in his lap and rifling through the pages, glancing up frequently to compare the photos of the students with the shot of this brunette. "What age do you think he is now?"

"I'd guess fifteen at least. Maybe seventeen, but that's a stretch."

"Sophomore. Or a junior, then," he said, bending down to the task. He spent a good twenty minutes pouring over the yearbook dwarfed in his lap, examining each face carefully, before he came up with a result. Marko looked up. "Gotta match. Says he's a 'Peter Parker'."

Silver Sable actually smiled. "Thank you, Marko. We can take it from here."

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(Saturday)

Maybe that whole I'm-being-stalked thing was in his imagination after all.

It wasn't the first time Peter Parker had gotten paranoid. It'd felt so real, though. Maybe it was just that last encounter with Brock playing on his nerves, causing him to keep looking over his shoulder for who knew what and jumping at boogey men. While he was probably justified in that reaction, he couldn't deny that he felt a bit lame about the whole thing. The thought that it was probably just paranoia was looking more and more likely especially since he hadn't had that feeling of being _followed_ and _watched_ for a few days now.

And still no sign of Eddie Brock. Peter couldn't understand it. What was the man up to? He'd scoured the news for anything out of place, half-expecting to come across some blazing headlines like EX-BUGLE JOURNALIST GOES ON RAMPAGE or CITY TERRORIZED BY ALIENS, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. There _were_ those strings of murders – bodies turning up, at least a dozen people who'd been missing or homeless suddenly ending up dead – but he wasn't sure if he could pin those on Brock or not. They seemed to be pretty spread out. Unfortunately, sources like the Bugle didn't feel it too necessary to go into the details of what happened there (it wasn't "big", to use Jameson's words, as homeless people died all the time).

Still, between these murders, Brock, and Sand Dude, he had his hands full. Peter simply didn't have _time_ to be paranoid.

It was probably safe to say that for once he didn't feel very enthusiastic about tagging along on a beat this time: while he didn't have anything against Ben Urich (cool guy), Peter just felt that he could be doing research instead of this. Maybe under other circumstances he would've felt more excited about seeing the Fantastic Four. But now all he could do was look down at the camera in his lap and toy half-heartedly with the lens, fiddling with the cap, and wonder what Brock was up to. It was almost a week since their last encounter, which hadn't ended well, and it just didn't seem like the man to sit there meekly while he had the symbiote with him.

"Don't look so worried, Peter," Urich said, glancing at him from the wheel. "This'll be a cakewalk. You'll do fine."

_It's not this that I'm worried about._ "I guess."

"Buck up," Urich flashed a grin, pushing up his glasses. "Just watch what I do. And make sure to get good pictures. Jameson'll have my hide if you don't bring back something worth the front page."

Peter forced a small, tight smile of his own. "I'll try."

It was hard not to remember the last times he'd accompanied someone on a beat – those times had been with Brock, not Urich, and he remembered they'd grown increasingly awkward after a while, with Brock becoming more and more distant without any reason why. And then there was the day where it'd just gone plain _wrong_…Peter shook himself mentally. It'd been an accident, he hadn't _known_ that Brock felt upstaged by him until the day he got fired, and while it was probably his fault that Brock was now "Venom", it _wasn't_ his fault that the man made the bad choices he did. It was tempting to heap all the blame on himself, but there was a line somewhere: you were responsible for your own actions, in the end.

And now it was a question of what Peter was responsible for. He hadn't taken care of the symbiote, hadn't tried taking it to Nick Fury or anyone else for that matter. This was his problem and he would have to clean it up.

But that could possibly mean he would have to make sure it was permanent…and he wasn't sure he could kill the symbiote and _not_ kill Eddie Brock. Maybe they weren't bonded that far. It was a big maybe, but that was all he had; he didn't want to think of having to _kill_ people, even if they were psycho.

Peter tried to cheer up as they pulled into the parking lot of the demonstration building, noting with relief that it wasn't the Lavits, instead flanked by two towering hotels and looking surprisingly modest. He didn't have time to note more as Urich ushered him out of the car and hurried the two of them toward the crowd near the lobby. Despite the 'incident' that happened last time he'd been at a conference, Peter was feeling pretty good: no one would be brave – or stupid – enough to try anything with the Fantastic Four here…would they?

Okay, so it was Fantastic _Two_, technically, but he figured it was good enough. He had to stand on his tiptoes to see anything, but Peter managed to catch a glimpse of a blond woman mobbed by reporters with a tall man with glasses at her side as they exited from the hotel. The woman smiled prettily, her companion adjusting his glasses and facing off against the forest of microphones in his face as if he was used to that sort of thing, holding up a hand in greeting as lights flashed and cameras clicked. Peter didn't need Urich bending down next to him to whisper to know they were Sue Storm and Reed Richards.

It was very tempting to jump into the reporters, push his way to the front, and ask for an autograph. Of course Peter would never admit being a fanboy to Mary Jane or Gwen, but what could he say? It was hard _not_ to geek over the fact that he actually was seeing _Reed Richards_ with his own two eyes and that he and his wife were right there, in the flesh, and that they were the kinds of geniuses that he could only hope to grow up to be. If he was lucky.

"Well, well," drawled a voice behind him. "Isn't that just _cute_? Thinking of getting an autograph? You should, you know: I'm sure they'll do it for a _kid_."

Peter stiffened, whirling at the voice. Urich shouldered him aside to stand between him and the man before them: Eddie Brock grinned at the two, dressed in black slacks and a dress shirt that Peter knew wasn't just clothes. The blond looked much improved since the last time Peter had seen him, almost back to normal except for the shadows under his eyes, which were hard and cruel now. They didn't match the innocent expression on Brock's face, who looked positively wounded when Urich rounded on him with a scowl that stated he was clearly unwelcome:

"What are _you_ doing here, Brock?"

Brock held up his camera. "Working. It's what people do, y'know. I'm sure you heard I got hired again."

"Congratulations," Urich said through gritted teeth. "You must be so proud of yourself."

"Why thank you and yes, I am," said Brock. "So what's old Jameson up to, Ben?" he smiled again, and Peter couldn't miss the mild venom lacing his words this time. "Still got a stick up his ass? Abusing all our dear friends – excuse me, _former_ friends – at the Bugle?" Brock addressed Urich, but his eyes were on the teenager next to him, following his every movement like a hawk. "Inquiring minds want to know."

Peter felt Ulrich place a protective hand on his shoulder. "Everyone's fine. And it's not your business what happens at the Bugle anymore, you know that."

"I can't help being nostalgic. Good times," Brock finally tore his eyes from Peter and glanced toward the center of the crowd's attention, looking at Sue Storm and Reed Richards with disinterest. "I can't imagine this being Jameson's idea of good news; a bit too boring and technical for him. I bet he's just hoping something'll go wrong. Disasters always did sell."

Urich rallied to defend his boss. "Obviously you don't know him as well as I do."

"Oh, I think I do. I'm sure he wouldn't complain at all if his buddy _Spider-man_ showed up."

Brock leered meaningfully at Peter, as if it was all some big joke that only he was privy to. It hadn't been so long ago that he saw that exact same face covered in a mask of blood and baring fangs at him, wanting nothing more than to tear him to pieces; the man had definitely cleaned up and it was amazing how well he was able to blend in and seem almost sane, in Peter's opinion. Peter stared back, not saying anything.

"So what's with the tagalong, Ben? I wasn't aware Jameson ran the Baby-sitter's Club," Brock changed the subject, still looking and sounding just as friendly as ever. He ignored Peter now, as if he wasn't worth his time.

"I'm training him."

Brock's smile twitched. Peter almost missed it. Urich didn't seem to notice. "For my job, I take it."

"No one could fill it," Urich replied, terse. "He's the best we got and Jameson needs a photographer."

"Well, good for him!" Brock said cheerfully. He turned his eyes back to Peter, and the look in them was unsettling; Peter could make out hatred and…and something _else_, something he couldn't place, couldn't put a name to. "Don't go doing anything stupid, Parker. Wouldn't want to lose that cushy new job now, do we?"

Brock went to push past them to get closer for pictures, and then paused, thinking of something. He turned and made a point of clapping a reassuring hand on Peter's shoulder, the bad one that he clawed up only days before.

"Oh, but I forgot to say. No hard feelings?" Brock smiled and casually squeezed, sinking his fingers in. Peter fought not to gasp out-loud as pain shot up from the healing injury, seeming to go straight into his shoulder blade. His eyes swam with the beginning of involuntary tears. "Just wanted to clear it up between us since we didn't exactly leave on the best of terms. Without you, Peter, I wouldn't have had the opportunities I have now. Thanks."

Peter turned, blinking, and stared up at Brock, refusing to flinch: "You're welcome," he got out, and almost _did_ gasp this time as Brock dug his fingers into his shoulder again with the same deliberate care, the friendly, I'm-a-good-guy look on his face unwavering.

"Take care," Brock said. "Both of you." The blond removed his hand, nodded to Urich, and smirked at Peter before disappearing into the crowd.

Wincing, Peter was glad he'd worn dark colors today; the spreading wetness on the back of his shoulder signaled that the wound was reopened after Brock's manhandling. His legs felt a bit shaky after that, and he could swear he could still feel the phantoms of Brock's fingers digging and twisting into his shoulder. Oblivious to what just happened, Urich sighed, deflating visibly.

"I'm sorry, Peter," he said. "I should've realized he'd be here. At least he wasn't angry with you."

Peter almost snorted at this, trying to catch his breath. Yeah right!

"I'm not surprised he's still bitter at Jameson though," Urich went on. "But he's taking it pretty well, all things considered."

That was somehow hard to believe. Brock could lay on the charm thick and fool Urich, maybe, but Peter was determined to keep an eye on the blond and find out what he was _really_ after. Was it just a "job", like he claimed? Or was there some kind of motive behind it, something that he couldn't begin to guess at? Sure Brock looked bored about the whole Fantastic Two deal, but he could very well just be faking it to throw him off guard.

Peter raised his camera, focusing the lens on the heads of the crowd, panning and zooming in until he found a familiar head of cropped, spiky blond hair right by the front of the mob of journalists and photographers, following Sue and Richard.

Brock, somehow sensing Peter's eyes on him, turned, looked right at him, and mouthed something.

It looked almost like _You're mine, Spider-man._

Peter shivered, lowering the camera. He had a bad feeling that something was going to happen…and that Eddie Brock would probably be involved somehow.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Aside from messing around with Parker, Eddie Brock found himself bored out of his skull. There was only so much he could do with paparazzi type pictures and while Sue Storm had all the right curves (and one hell of an ass), it probably wasn't going to be the shots his boss was looking for, although he was sure the man would probably keep those pictures for his"personal" use. _Great to know that I'm only good for wank material, _he thought sarcastically. Oh no, he wasn't bitter at all.

But he _was_ bored and bored didn't sit well with him these days.

Eddie still wasn't quite sure just what the Fantastic Four were showing here; he didn't care, at any rate, and wasn't willing to sit through the entire damn thing no matter how much they claimed it'd benefit mankind. That was the boredom talking, but only in part: he wasn't entirely part of 'mankind', now, and what did it matter if a bunch of normal humans found world peace or something equally nauseating? They certainly weren't _his_ species. That thought was jarring, feeling as if he was looking in on a stranger, and yet he knew it to be true. It was the truth that he was gifted, they were not. Fact, even.

Unfortunately he was still capable of feeling the human trait of boredom. Eddie wasn't sure if he could sit in the chair before the staging area much longer, listening to "Mr. Fantastic" ('_Fantastic' my ass_, he thought) ramble on, without starting to think it would be a damn good idea to start flipping some tables to stir things up.

That and the thought that Peter Parker was several rows behind him made them feel…antsy.

Giving him a reminder of pain had been enjoyable; it only seemed fair to Eddie that Parker get a taste of the pain _he_ felt when he had to be serviced by the symbiote, when he ended up clawing himself up each and every time.

At least Eddie was sure he was set for now. Parker was close and the _need_ to attempt to re-bond stronger than ever, but he wasn't trying to jump the kid and that was a plus as far as he was concerned. Bored as fuck still. If he didn't get some fresh air away from this sweltering mass of humanity grouped in one room – the stench of human was strong in their enhanced nose – he was probably going to get more than just bored.

Finally unable to take it anymore, Eddie got up, inching his way through the row of filled chairs until he was out in the aisle and heading toward the exit; he didn't have to turn to see their Spider tracking them, no doubt wondering just what they were up to. _Let him wonder. _Eddie was all up for giving him a few more ulcers to worry about. Nothing would please him more than to make Parker torture himself with what ifs.

Walking out of the room, the double doors shutting behind him, Eddie paused in the lobby, and decided where to go. Getting something to drink seemed like an idea, but he hadn't seen any soda machines around here. Then again, he hadn't exactly been looking at them – hard to when you were checking out a certain Spider. Best bet was probably the hotels or something, linked for convenience's sake by halls to his left and right. Picking one, Eddie spent the next couple of minutes trying to locate a soda machine; the damned things were hiding on him and he had to wander his way up unto the seventh floor before he finally found a long row of vending machines.

He'd started to head toward one when he sensed someone behind him in the hall, a good several yards away.

"Eddie Brock?"

Eddie turned and froze. Flint Marko! It took all his control not to morph into Venom right there. Did he know about their identity? Or was this just some bizarre coincidence? "That's me," he said, wary. "Who's asking?"

"I'm Flint Marko. And I'm thinkin' we should have ourselves a little talk."

Eddie frowned. "I don't know who you are, but I'm busy. Leave me alone."

He made to leave, but Marko barred his way with a well-muscled arm.

"You're makin' the mistake of thinkin' you have a say in th' matter, Mr. Brock," he said. "You've got two options here: th' nice way – my way – or th' hard way. I'm tellin' you now you don't want th' hard way."

"I don't understand," Eddie said, playing it dumb for now and trying to stall. "What do you want with me?"

Marko leaned close, ignoring the question. "All black again, eh? _Nice_ shirt."

"Get out of my way," Eddie gritted, feeling his teeth starting to lengthen into fang points.

"Hard way it is, then."

Marko's eyes flicked to a point behind Eddie right around the time when Parker's spider-sense suddenly flared up inside their skull. Eddie was already starting to duck the attack from the front, eyes on Marko, when he suddenly became aware of the presence of a _second_ person behind him; unlike Marko, this person was much more skilled at moving about unnoticed. Eddie spun around and found himself on the end of a sparking baton shoved into his stomach. Electricity coursed through them – not enough to incapacitate, but just enough that Eddie lost his balance for a second.

It only took a second for the Silver Bitch to slap on _something_ around his neck.

Eddie had barely enough time to reach up, feel his fingers brush against some kind of thin collar and register the fact it was _humming_ before another bolt of electricity hit him, this time through his neck.

Eddie cried out and staggered. But he didn't go down.

In fact, they were now _very_ angry, electric collar or not, and it wouldn't matter if these two saw them transform: there wouldn't be anything left to betray their secret. Eddie was already well in his way toward transforming, snarling, when Marko tried to grab him from behind, a needle in his hand and then suddenly jabbed in the side of Eddie's exposed neck.

Venom roared at this and responded with an elbow backward into Marko's face.

He got a delicious sort of pleasure watching the man stumble backward, half his caved-in cheek just a sandy mess and still trying to reform, his left eye sunken into the grains. That pleasure turned to pain, however, as that cursed collar delivered another powerful jolt, sending him stumbling and clawing madly at the thing. Spitting and snarling, they rounded on the Silver Bitch, eyes falling on the device she held in her other hand. So _she_ was in control of the collar!

Venom lunged at the woman, pushing off the floor in a bound and closing the distance between them even as she triggered the collar again. He convulsed at the charge running through his neck, nearly tripped, and gave Sandman the opening he was looking for. The next thing Venom knew, he was flying to the side, the row of vending machines crunching under his weight as he slammed into them _hard_. Snarling, tongue lashing, Venom pushed off from the mangled, flattened wreck of a soda machine, eyes on Sandman as he circled to put the man between him and a nearby window, a claw reaching up to tear the infernal collar _off_. It seemed to refuse attempts to just stretch it off, expanding when they did only to snap back.

Another stabbing shock as he touched the metal of the collar. Venom howled, green blood starting to drip past his fangs as they struggled to keep their form together, the black surface of their skin starting to bubble and boil. The symbiote was weakening from the continued charges, and whatever Sandman injected them with was starting to work.

Venom kept an eye on the Silver Bitch keeping a respectful distance and also one on Sandman: Marko was up against the window now, his hands both massive clubs of sand. They were closer to him than the human female.

Feinting toward the Silver Bitch, Venom pounced and hit Sandman in a tackle, wrapping him in a bear hug as they impacted with the window behind him. Glass shattered outward under their combined weight. Free fall. Hissing, Venom snapped at whatever of Marko he could get within reach of, holding onto a shirt that seemed to give way and trying to grab for _something_ to hold onto as they spun out into empty space several floors up from the parking lot.

Wind whistled past Venom's face as he wrestled with Sandman, shooting a claw out at the striped shirt before him. It gave…only to solidify, trapping his fist in his stomach and _not_ spilling strings of guts like he'd intended. Marko grimaced up at his opponent and swung a clumsy punch, sand swirling out from the blow. Venom's head snapped back, seeing stars they shouldn't even be seeing in the first place, and almost lost his grip, trapped claw flying free as he started to slip off.

The ground rushed at them. Forcing himself to focus and shake off the stars swimming in his vision, Venom extended a claw up and fired off a black line of webbing. It caught, held, and he came to a jarring stop in mid-fall, the web-line recoiling to bounce him up again in the air: he flipped backward onto the wall, watching Marko plummet the remaining floors to ground level. He hit the parking lot in an explosion of sand that set off several car alarms.

Perched on the wall and crawling his way down, Venom snarled to himself, all nice and worked up and ready to start killing things. They weren't hungry and he doubted very much that they could have much use for a brain made out of sand, but that didn't mean they had to deny themselves the pleasure of killing Flint Marko just because of a little problem like that. Leaping straight down for the last floor, Venom landed easily and stood up. The collar bothered him, humming against his flesh, and yet not with the same comforting sense of cold that he was used to. It was _alien_.

At least it wasn't shocking him – they probably had a few minutes before it did, at best, before Silver Bitch covered those seven floors and got into range.

Ignoring it for now, Venom stalked across the parking lot, claws curled into fists. Already he could see Sandman reforming, leaning up against a parked SUV, face still a misshapen lump of grainy debris that was growing more and more detailed and lifelike. Rage fueled them, made them want to rip out Marko's spinal cord and beat him to death with it (see how he liked _that_!), but was still left with the fact that it was looking impossible to get any real hits on him when he'd just slip through their claws like water.

Well. If they couldn't go with Choice A of Spinal Cord Bludgeoning (his personal preference), then they would just have to go with Choice B: anything else. Venom turned toward the small car next to him – a Volkswagen, according to Eddie Brock's memory – and grabbed it by the front, sinking his claws into metal and heaving it up with a grunt. The human part of them registered dizzy delight that they were now able to lift a goddamn _car_ like it was made out of cardboard. It was rather unwieldy though, but would suit their purposes regardless. Fangs bared, and muscles bulging, Venom took a running step and then another to get some momentum, and released the Volkswagen into the air.

It was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen in his life.

The Volkswagen soared across the parking lot, its shadow looming over Flint Marko. The man had time to look up before the airborne car went crashing literally right on top of him, sand flying in every direction as the vehicle rolled once, twice, three times and then ploughed into a Jeep, glass tinkling as the front of the Jeep simply _vanished_ with a deafening screech of metal on metal. The Volkswagen itself flipped over the Jeep only to flatten the convertible on the other side. No explosion, however, and that made them faintly sad: they supposed that car explosions were apparently not as common as the movies would have them seem.

The Volkswagen bought him some time to think; a minute, maybe, before Sandman could reform…or before the not-so-Fantastic Four were notified of a brawl going down on their home turf. There had to be a way to keep their enemy from reforming. Wracking their shared mind for what they knew about the property of sand – other than that it got everywhere – Venom came to the conclusion that he had to either scatter the sand so far that Marko couldn't reshape himself or somehow cement him together so that he couldn't just swirl away from their blows….

Their webbing. It wasn't by any means permanent, but it was sticky enough to do the job.

Climbing over the mess of the Jeep, which _still_ wasn't on fire yet (disappointing), Venom vaulted down to the ground and headed straight for the man-shaped mound of sand. Marko was almost back to normal again, and looking suitably pissed off now that he'd been thrown out a seven story window _and_ then had a car thrown at him.

"What was even the point of that?" Marko demanded, scowling. "Really, Mr. Brock, we're just draggin' this shit out when we don't have to. If you jus' came quietly with us like I asked, it'd be easier for everyone."

Venom's eyes narrowed to white slits, inching closer. "Why? So we can be your little guinea pig?"

"My boss would like a chat, is all. He's interested t'know about yourself an' your relationship with Spider-man."

"We'll pass," Venom was within claw range now. He swung at Marko's chest, making it the most glaringly obvious punch he could possibly make to an overconfident human who fancied himself invincible.

Marko took it in the chest as he had in the fall from the windows without flinching. He looked down at the trapped fist, and then at the fanged monster before him, raising an exasperated eyebrow in a _not-this-again_ look.

The expression turned quickly to discomfort and finally to pain as Venom released all the webbing he could from his trapped hand. Realizing what he was up to, Marko released him, but it was too late: he was mostly solid now, and looking like he wanted to be violently sick, his tanned, craggy features pale. The hole in his chest was slower to close than earlier, leaking the same black discharge that was starting to dribble from the corners of the Sandman's mouth. Marko gagged, having trouble breathing, and coughing up more of the black liquid sticking to his lips.

Reaching down casually to wrench free the concrete parking curb at his feet, Venom took a moment to savor in the human panic starting to dawn on Marko's face as they locked eyes.

Marko most certainly didn't want to die, not like this.

And that just made it all the better, didn't it? Deliberately hefting the curb so that Marko had a good long look, Venom broke out into a malevolent, fang-filled smile:

"We _did_ wonder if there was any way to hurt you, Man of Sand," Venom glanced down at the curb. How to do this? They could easily knock Marko's head right off his shoulders with this…or they could start with the limbs and work their way up. He rather liked that one. "And now we know!"

Venom swung the curb at Marko's arm: the curb shattered on impact, but so did the arm, dissolving into thick flakes of solidified sand held together with the sticky black webbing.

"_Aarrgh_!"

"My, my, now you've gone all _lop-sided_. We can't have that, can we?" Venom reached out and grabbed at the other arm, sneering, his tongue flicking out to snake in the air. "We'll fix that for you _right_ away!"

Marko, panting, glared up at Venom, miraculously still on his feet. "Y-y'might want to leave that."

Venom tightened his claws around Marko's flaking wrist and prepared to pull. "Tell me if this hurts – we're counting that it will."

"You'll be the one hurting," Marko gritted out. "You ugly fucker."

Venom frowned and then realized that Marko wasn't looking at him, but over his shoulder. Snarling, Venom spun around, claws ejected and reaching for the petite woman who'd snuck on him not once, but twice now. Instead of backing up, she stepped even closer, and shoved that sparking baton's point at his exposed chest and actually _stabbed_ the thing in him. Venom fell back with a pained roar, and reached up to bat the thing away, regaining his balance and looking up.

The Silver Bitch had that device out again…and she was cranking it even higher.

The collar around his neck erupted into life again. Electricity flooded their shared body, aided by whatever they'd been injected with, and the world flashed out of focus. Venom shrieked. _On fire! _Every part of them was in agony, twitching and falling more and more out of their control, spiraling as the shocks continued to pulse through the ring of spreading numbness that started from their neck. Venom convulsed under the continued assault, fresh green blood – now speckled with human blood – trickled down their jaws and staining their fangs. He took a tortured step toward the woman.

And that was as far as they got.

Their Other winked out of consciousness shortly after Eddie Brock did.

Silver Sable couldn't help the sigh of relief as the black mutant finally went down for good this time. The black covering, like some kind of second skin, oozed out of sight in jerky spasms, leaving the human underneath to slump to the pavement in a naked heap. _Best to be sure this time though_, she thought. The collar was still active if he should act up again, but she didn't want to kill him if she didn't have to; it was a miracle he'd lasted this long already. Rolling Brock over with her boot, she toed him hard in the ribs. Unresponsive. Bending down, she checked his pulse, lifting a limp, clammy wrist between her fingers. Yes, he was still alive…just very, very out of it.

"That fucker," Flint Marko panted behind her, voice sounding choked. "W-what did he do to me?"

The mercenary turned toward Marko and deftly stepped out of the way just as he vomited up a mess of black, sticky mud.

"I don't know," Silver Sable said. She hadn't been able to get a good look at what the creature did to Marko, but it didn't look good. "But maybe you should keep doing that."

Wincing with the effort it took to lift his arm, Marko wiped at his mouth. "I n-need more sand," he managed to get out before he bent over and began spitting up more black mud that was starting to look more like watery clay than anything else at this point. "Sand…and a tub of water. C-can't believe that thing took off my arm."

"When we get back to Fisk," Silver Sable said. "We've got to get out of here."

She bent down to pick up the mutant at their feet.

"Can you manage that?"

Silver Sable shot Marko a withering look. "I can handle Brock fine. You just keep throwing up."

Marko did just that, laboring after the woman once she got Brock arranged over her shoulders in a fireman's carry, and leaving a trail of wet, inky clay behind him. All Marko could think about was how he'd like to give this Eddie Brock some payback next chance he got.

The only thought Silver Sable had was one of pure satisfaction. They had their prize.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

_Brock's been gone an awfully long time. _

Long enough that Peter Parker was starting to feel that his suspicion was more than a little justified. A simple trip to the bathroom or anything like that shouldn't take this long, he thought, biting his lip and fidgeting in his seat. Peter couldn't imagine what the blond could be up to, but it was time to find out. Excusing himself, and feeling bad for turning his back on the presentation just as the live demonstration was going to take place, Peter walked into the aisle and toward the exit.

Entering the lobby, Peter glanced around. The doors were thick, but it sounded like there was some kind of…alarm? It was faint, but he was sure he could hear something through the soundproofing.

Pushing open the lobby doors, Peter ground to a halt, instinctively clapping his hands to his ears. Several car alarms were going off, piercing the air – and there was also several wrecked cars, looking as if something had bulldozed into them. One was even flipped upside down. Fishing in his pocket and feeling the comforting touch of his mask, Peter squinted, taking a hesitant step forward as he stared across the parking lot. There were one – no, two people off in the distance near the street. One was missing an arm and seemed as if he was really sick from the way he was puking his guts up all over the place. The other was a lady, shining against the black pavement thanks to her white outfit and silver hair -

Silver. And a lady?

Wait a minute…

That had to be the woman Brock mentioned earlier! Peter broke into a jog, ducking between the cars and trying to stay out of sight, feeling the camera hanging around the neck cord banging against his chest and wishing he'd left it with Ben Urich. Kneeling behind the wreck of a Jeep, Peter peeped around the corner of the back bumper and felt his jaw drop.

There was Sand Dude – minus an arm – and there was the crazy lady just like Brock said! Silver Lady was bending down over something on the ground, hauling what looked almost like a naked person up onto her shoulders.

Peter narrowed his eyes, holding onto the Jeep's steel bumper. Whoever he was, he didn't look like he was objecting to being naked or being carted around like so much luggage. In fact, he didn't even look like he was conscious, judging from the way he just seemed to _flop_. However, he _did_ look familiar. Peter stared at the man's head hanging down and realized with a sinking feeling that he already knew who it was.

Eddie Brock.

But how had they tracked him here? Peter was reasonably sure that Brock wasn't stupid enough to just go waltzing around as Venom out in the open and yet here he was. _They knew his _real _identity_, Peter realized, eyes wide. _But no one knows he's Venom but me…_

_Oh my God._

Brock had even said to his face that these people knew there was some kind of link between Venom and Spider-man…and the only way to link Spider-man to _Eddie Brock_ was to know who Spider-man was underneath the mask. Peter's hands clenched, the metal of the bumper bending easily under his fingertips. So he _had_ been followed for the past few week, it wasn't just his imagination! His secret identity was not-so-secret any more, nevermind Brock's.

Who _were_ these people? And what did they want with Brock? What would they do now that they had their identities?

Peter wasn't sure yet if he intended to try to mount a rescue for Brock but he did know that he was still his responsibility. And it wasn't responsible to turn your back on a problem just because someone decided to take it off your hands.

There was no choice but to follow.

**To be continued...**  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

I have another admission to make: while I always think of Venom from the 90's cartoon when I have to write Venom speaking here, I kind of imagine movieverse!Eddie Brock whenever it's Brock.

And yeah, no really slashy stuff yet. But it's coming up. :D


	9. The First Two Stages

**Black Sustenance**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: Naturally I don't own Spider-man.  
**Author Notes: **Thank you once again for all the reviews: I really appreciated them. And now I've a mini announcement: I've referenced the 90's cartoon several times in the fanfic. If you can name three examples, I'll write you a drabble/one-shot (just make sure to leave me an e-mail address. :) )

Anyway same old story: while I do ship Venom/Spider-man, plot comes first.

_Italics_ for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote  
**Archive**: Sure, just ask.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X  
Black Sustenance  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(The First Two Stages)

This was utter bullshit.

At least Flint Marko had stopped throwing up. Finally. It felt like he'd puked up half his body weight in whatever that black shit was in the time it took to drag Brock from the parking lot to the car waiting for them. The car was a rental this time, and decidedly more discreet than the black vans Wild Pack favored, but it was also a hell of a lot more cramped. Aware that pieces of him were still flaking off and that he could still feel that weird, unpleasant sensation of that black ooze _inside_ him, Flint slammed the passenger's door shut with his remaining arm. He wanted to just get back to Fisk, dump this mutant Eddie Brock into his lap, and get himself back to normal.

It had been quite some time since he'd been this injured. And he hadn't ever been missing a goddamn _limb_ before. It hurt, too, and the only thing that made him feel a bit better was the knowledge that unlike most people, this wasn't a permanent injury for him. Wash out this black gunk and with more sand he could reform another arm for himself. It wasn't like he'd be a cripple the rest of his life.

That still didn't excuse this mutant for the stunt he pulled.

Glowering, wiping the last of the black clay from his mouth with the back of his hand, Flint glanced behind him in the mirror. Silver Sable was settling herself and their charge in the back. Flint watched as the female mercenary unceremoniously dumped Brock face first onto the back seat, fishing around under the passenger chair and coming up with what looked like handcuffs on steroids. For some reason they didn't have a steel link between the cuffs and for a moment Flint wondered what the point of it was. It suddenly made sense as Silver Sable snapped the cuffs onto Brock's wrists and brought them close – they suddenly jumped together of their own accord when she waved a glowing blue key over them.

Huh. Magnets.

"So he can't try chewing through them," Silver Sable explained, not looking up. She pocketed the key and began fitting a bar between the magnetic cuffs. "You holding up?'

Flint grunted. "I'm not throwing up anymore if that's what you're asking."

"We'll be back soon enough. The first thing we'll do is get what you need, okay?"

Silver Sable hauled Brock up by the cuff-bar, pushing him into an approximate sitting position as she slid into the backseat next to him. She was careful to keep the baton leveled at his ribs, her other hand holding onto the controls for the collar still around the unconscious man's neck. Flint couldn't tell if she was reassuring him just to shut him up or if she really _did_ care that he was crippled as he was. Hard to tell with the bitch, sometimes. Usually she was as callous and cold as he expected, but it was rare comments like that which gave him pause.

The driver next to Flint flicked a glance in the rearview mirror and put the car into drive once Silver Sable nodded.

The car ride was silent except for the occasional bursts of voices from Silver Sable's radio, the members of her Wild Pack reporting in every now and then. Flint couldn't help glancing back more than once in the mirror toward the backseat as they made their way deeper into New York and wound their way toward Fisk's tower. It was hard to believe that this Eddie Brock was that big, ugly fuck of a monster with a mile long sadistic streak. You wouldn't guess it just looking at him.

Flint's eyes narrowed in the mirror. No, you definitely wouldn't guess it looking at him, especially not when Brock was now propped up against the backseat of the car, head bowed, properly handcuffed and collared, and not threatening to start pulling your arms off one by one just for his sick kicks. Brock looked fairly young – early thirties, at best, he supposed – and he had even acted and sounded normal back in the hotel. Was this some Jekyll and Hyde crap, or something else? Flint didn't know and wasn't sure he cared too much for the details.

Flint _did_ know that he wouldn't mind the excuse to rough up Brock when he woke up from his involuntary beauty sleep.

Nothing like a little tit-for-tat…or an arm for an arm.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Spider-man expected to have a hard time tracking the car – it was car-shaped, car-colored and therefore looked like just about every other car on the road. What he didn't expect, however, was for the people that took Eddie Brock to head right toward Fisk Towers; _that_ brought him up short, especially considering his last run ins with the Jolly White Giant and friends. What did Wilson Fisk – the Kingpin – want with Brock? Whatever it was, it had to be stopped. As far as he was concerned, Brock was bad news. Crazy, homicidal, and with an axe to grind and not too particular if people got in his way…and yet of the two evils, he was honestly the lesser.

Men like Fisk were only human, but they were dangerous for the fact they didn't care or seem to have any limits to what they would do to get what they wanted. At least Brock seemed content to just limit his terrorizing to Peter Parker.

Spider-man sat on his heels on the top of a water tower overlooking the street, gazing at Fisk Towers, chin thoughtfully cupped in his hand.

This…could take a while.

_He could be anywhere in there_, Spider-man worried_. That's a _lot _of floors to cover and that's not counting trying to sneak in and see what old Fatty-Fat Fisk is up to_. He'd managed to sneak in before, but it would make sense for Fisk to have improved his security and made it Spider-proof since last time. He'd already done that to the windows last time he checked. Trying to find a way in and find Brock could take days, days he wasn't sure he even had. The last thing he wanted was Fisk in possession of what a symbiote offered.

Spider-man's mind was made up. While he didn't trust Brock at all, he at least knew that he couldn't let Fisk have him. Maybe he could reason with Brock, convince him to either lie low or commit to some kind of truce. A bit of a stretch, but Spider-man knew the symbiote – and its host, by extension – had something that would override even their freaky obsession with him, and that was the goal of survival at all costs. They'd put aside their hatred of him for that, wouldn't they?

They would, right?

Okay, so he wasn't _one hundred percent_ sure.

But that didn't mean he was going to turn his back on this. Standing up, Spider-man stretched first one arm and then the other, testing the injured shoulder. Still hurt like a mother, but it looked okay enough to websling on some more. At least it was starting to get dark; he'd have the added cover of darkness….then again, he also had to get back to Queens by a reasonable amount of time before Aunt May got on his case or flipped out thinking he'd been kidnapped or mugged.

_Worst timing, honestly_. Spider-man took a running leap from the water tower, snapping out a web line. _Story of my life._

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Eddie Brock flickered between consciousness and oblivion, swimming in a general sea of pain and a heaviness that he couldn't seem to shake off. Several times he thought he was awake – his eyes seemed to be open – and there were times he thought he caught glimpses of faces looming over him, voices. It was impossible to stay awake. The faces and voices blurred together and he sank again and again into nothing for what seemed like a very long time.

The next thing Eddie was aware of was a pounding headache, his cheek pressed against some kind of cold floor. Every part of his body seemed to _ache_, with his neck and shoulders right up there at the top of the list. Puzzled, Eddie tried to move his arms and found that he couldn't budge them – they were locked behind his back, the reason why his shoulders felt so strained. What the - ? What was going on? Wide awake now, Eddie focused on his Other, searching for that familiar presence, feeling that it was still there, that he was still _more_ than human, and tried to break free. It should be easy with their strength.

The resulting shock from the collar made Eddie writhe on the floor, curling up in a ball as he tried to ride out the pain, crying out. His symbiote, if anything, took it worse and Eddie could see several agonized drops of it, black and glistening before his eyes, leap off him and splat on the floor, quivering.

Something clicked into life above them, a clear, male British voice filtering down:

"A fascinating reaction. So you're particularly suspectible to electricity, it appears. And good afternoon, Mr. Brock."

Panting, Eddie managed to sit up – harder than it looked without his hands free – and looked around, trying to will the residing muscle tremors away. He was in some kind of small cell, thick black windows all around that looked like the one-way windows he'd occasionally seen before: there was a white, spotless cot, equally spotless bathroom facilities, and no privacy whatsoever.

The anonymous voice on the other end continued. "Mr. Fisk apologizes for the crude accommodations, but they _are_ only temporary. You'll be given better quarters once we've learned a bit more about you. And once you've proven you can behave yourself."

"What's going on?" Eddie demanded hoarsely, looking around. All this white hurt his eyes, seeming to throb painfully. He couldn't see where the speaker was located. "Who're you?"

"I've been assigned to study you, Mr. Brock. You can call me Alistair Smythe, but I'm fine with plain Alistair," Alistair said. There was a rustling of papers and then the _tak-tak_ of a keyboard. "I admit I've been rather taken with you and your…_condition_ ever since Flint Marko brought me a sample of your blood. Absolutely fascinating! I've never seen anything like it. It proves you aren't just a mutant, like we previously assumed, but something else. Something _more_."

This was the worst case scenario, Eddie realized, feeling his blood run cold. They had always been afraid of being captured, being used as a lab rat, and always, always there was the primal fear that they would be separated. How long had he been unconscious? What had they done to him while he was out? He didn't know, and for the first time in a long time, Eddie felt terrified. What if they took the symbiote away from him? There was nothing for him without his Other. _He_ was nothing.

Eddie didn't want to die like he had that fateful night. But there was nothing else left if he went from Eddie Brock, Host, to Eddie Brock, human. The thought that he would be _normal_ again was unbearable. If there was no Venom, no symbiote, then there wouldn't be any Eddie Brock either.

How long had he been here?

Staring up bleakly around him, he had a feeling that it was at least a day, maybe more, judging from the fact that he was apparently having one hell of erection and straining for the release he hadn't gotten since Saturday afternoon. Eddie blushed, all too aware that Alistair's eyes were on him (why was he still _naked_?), and that there was no hiding the fact that he was still able to get it up even imprisoned like this. Of all the times to be aroused, this was the worst.

Alistair's cultured, disembodied voice didn't miss a thing. "Is that normal for you, Mr. Brock?" he asked. "It's rather unusual for a subject to experience penile erection without any apparent stimulation."

Eddie didn't say anything, face red. 'Subject' now, was he? What was he, a fucking animal?

"It's nothing to be ashamed about. It's just a natural bodily function."

Eddie couldn't believe he was having this conversation. "You some kind of pervert?"

Alistair laughed. "Really now. No, I'm no pervert. But as you _are_ my subject, everything you do and everything that happens to you is of interest to me, even something as seemingly irrelevant as…well, _that_." The condescending smile was apparent, and Eddie knew the other man was looking pointedly at his erect cock. Eddie flushed again.

"You can't go around kidnapping people!"

"You're no person," Alistair said, the chuckle still in his voice. "You give up that right once you start bonding with life-forms not native to this planet."

He paused.

"But I can see that erection _is_ bothering you and I'd really rather you were comfortable. Obviously you can't do it yourself, so…"

A door hissed open. Eddie turned and stiffened as Flint Marko ducked through – or would have ducked through the door, if he was a normal man. He simply walked through the edge of it, head melting into sand as the top shaved through his forehead. His head reformed as he stepped through. Eddie couldn't help the angry hiss under his breath as he noticed that Marko had his arm back and was more or less in one piece. _Damn_. Glaring daggers at the other man, Eddie tried to scoot backward and get his feet under him as Marko crossed the room.

Eddie struggled as Marko reached down and hauled him non-too-gently to his feet; the other man stopped just short of slamming him up against the reinforced glass. Eddie grunted as his head banged against it.

"Disappointed?" Marko leaned close, scowling. "Bet you thought yer bullshit with my arm was permanent."

He punctuated the remark by reaching down and grabbing Eddie's throbbing length, his fingers thick and slightly grainy to the touch.

Eddie gasped. "A guy can dream."

"Yeah, well, fuck you too. We all got unrealistic dreams."

Marko began jerking Eddie off with quick, rough motions, more to get it over with then to make it pleasant for the blond. Eddie strained against him, panting and hating himself for the fact that he was privately relieved to be getting _any_ action, nevermind who from. It was almost as bad as the emergency room. While he didn't feel that sense of utter fulfillment with the symbiote, he was still human enough to feel the physical sensations, and it felt almost good despite the unfamiliar fingers against his cock. It still wasn't enough. It wasn't his Other. It wasn't their Spider either. Eddie banged his head into the thick glass again, biting off a curse as he squirmed unwillingly against Marko.

It seemed to take forever.

His naked hips bucked against Marko's hand as he grit his teeth, eyes clenched shut. This was unbelievably humiliating. Eddie moaned despite himself, arching his back. It was bad enough he was getting a damn hand job from another _man_, much less a man he really, really wouldn't mind killing.

Eddie tried to capture that mental image, tried to remember how liberating it felt to throw an actual car at their enemy, and hold it in his mind's eye for as long as he could. It wasn't the best replacement, but anything was better than looking up to see Marko's hated face so close to his and knowing it was a piss poor substitute for what they really needed.

It took far longer than it would have normally before Eddie finally came in Marko's hand. Panting for breath, Eddie sagged against the other man, a thin sheen of sweat covering his body, trembling slightly. When Marko dragged him away from the windows, he didn't dig in his feet, stumbling forward.

Looking up, Eddie's eyes widened as he saw the incoming fist. He braced for it, but it still _hurt_, and the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, his jaw throbbing as Marko stood over him.

"Oops. Guess my fist jus' slipped there."

Alistair interrupted. "That's quite enough, Marko. While I understand you have your reasons, I can't allow you to manhandle our guest. Now if you'll kindly leave…"

"Yeah, yeah, doc. Just sayin' my goodbyes."

Eddie glared up at Marko as he knelt over him.

"I played nice this time, freak," said Marko, and gave Eddie a mockery of a friendly slap on the cheek. "Doc's orders."

"Still sore about that arm?" Eddie sneered, fangs peeking out.

"The doc can't watch you 24/7."

Eddie nursed his bruised jaw as Marko left. It occurred to him now, _really_ occurred to him, that they might be trapped here for a while. The symbiote could potentially recover to service him, but what about their other needs? What about their _hunger_? Struggling to sit up, Eddie paled. These people didn't know anything about them. There was the very real possibility that he wouldn't be properly fed – and there was the realization that while he hadn't wanted to be involved in their other needs, there was no avoiding the fact that they hadn't fed recently. _Oh shit_. He still remembered the memories his Other had regarding just what happened when a symbiote didn't snack on another's brains. It hadn't been pretty.

"I apologize for his crude actions, Mr. Brock," Alistair said. "If you behave today, I'll have the hand cuffs removed so you won't have to undergo such an unpleasant experience."

Eddie growled under his breath. He wasn't sure how long he'd be stuck here – surely they would find a way out – but it'd be a lot easier if he had his hands free. They didn't like the idea of bending to this faceless man _at all_, but it seemed a small price to pay to have their hands free. Already he was needing more release, and _not_ from Marko; he didn't want to have to suffer that particular humiliation more than he had to. If he was going to get jerked off in front of prying eyes, he'd rather do it himself.

Scowling, Eddie tottered to his feet and sat down on the cot, gazing up at the ceiling. It took a while, but he finally spotted the little hole where the camera was – a little glint, like an insect's black eye, stared back at him.

Really too bad he didn't have his hands free. Eddie had the urge to flip Alistair off.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Alistair Smythe was fucking inhuman. Flint Marko didn't understand how he was still awake, but there he was on Day 2, already parked in front of his array of terminals and screens and peeping on the Eddie Brock cell without looking the least bit tired and showing no signs of sleep. Or eating. Or drinking. In fact, he looked even more refreshed since the last time he saw him. Flint didn't exactly trust these researcher types, but Smythe was at least polite and not _too_ frosty. He turned in his wheelchair to look over his shoulder as Flint strolled in, yawning and rubbing at his hair, sprinkling sand.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't shed in my laboratory," Smythe said mildly. "The equipment here _is_ delicate."

Flint didn't apologize, but he did remove his hand. "Mr. Fisk wants t'know how thing're goin'."

"Wonderfully. This Eddie Brock is quite the specimen, one of the most interesting individuals I've had on my hands in a long time. Last night was…productive."

Smythe pointed to one of the hovering side screens, which was playing some kind of tape. Flint leaned close, but wasn't entirely sure what he was looking at. Seeing his confusion, Smythe brought the recording to a larger screen, his thin, elegant fingers literally flying over his keyboard as he adding something to a report with one hand, the other orchestrating the cycling of screens.

"I decided to reward his docility by deactivating the cuffs," the British scientist explained. "But the collar, of course, stays. He can't do anything unless I wish it."

Flint stared, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. "What's goin' on there?"

The screen was now big, TV-sized, and Flint would've thought he was watching bad porn if it wasn't for the fact he knew Brock was a floor below them and no actor. The blond was kneeling in a corner of the cell behind the bed, rocking back and forth and moaning – quietly, like he was trying to bite it off, but not doing a good job of it – as something…_something_ black spread from his knees and entered him in a thick, glistening tentacle. It pumped in and out over and over as Brock curled up, one hand propping his body up, head bowed. Flint couldn't make heads or tales of what was going on. The next thing he knew, the blond was sinking to the floor in an exhausted heap, a chunk of his shoulder covered in blood as he caught his breath.

The screen froze.

Smythe reached out and circled the still-bloodied shoulder, ghostly blue light following his finger like some kind of bizarre, high tech version of finger-paint.

"Self-mutilation. You can tell Mr. Fisk that it's not permanent."

"Horny fucker, ain't he?"

"He does seem to have heightened sexual desire, yes," Smythe replied earnestly. "I let him try to fulfill that with nothing but his human hands, but it was obviously unsatisfactory to him."

He rewound the clip and drew another blue circle around the black ooze pulsing up into Brock like some kind of perverted living dildo. Flint frowned, wanting to look away. He didn't really care for this Peeping Tom act. Smythe leaned forward:

"I was a bit leery at the idea of letting him do it the way he wanted to, seeing as it depends on the 'other' life-form. But I made it clear that any attempts to escape while doing so would end badly. He seemed more concerned with getting to…well, to _business_, at any rate. It's like a drug, you see. He _has_ to do it."

"Even though he knows you're watchin'?"

"Oh, he knows alright. But he can't seem to resist even so," Smythe slid the image to the side with one hand, and casually dragged another over. "I'm curious to know why he's like this, if it's just a side effect from his bonding or something wrong with his serotonin levels."

Flint knew he'd heard the word "serotonin" floating around, but he honestly didn't remember much of the college courses he'd dropped out on. It wasn't like college taught him anything of use anyway. He folded his arms stubbornly over his chest.

Smythe went on: "The only thing I have to report is that he seems to be increasing this activity. You can inform Mr. Fisk that such studies take time, and that I expect we'll have more solid results in a few days. Perhaps sooner. You brought him to me at the start of some sort of critical stage."

Flint watched as Smythe reached up, looking at what he assumed was some kind of sample from Brock, and wrote _Abnormally High Levels of Phenylethylamine_ – _Level Sinking Drastically _in glowing blue, now oblivious of the man behind him. Shaking his head, feeling faintly disturbed at what he'd seen, Flint stalked out. The only reason he was still hanging around Fisk's place was for a chance at payback; he already had Spider-man's real identity, but he hadn't decided how much it was worth yet. A lot, definitely, but he was going to be already filthy rich after this job. The people he cared for wouldn't have to worry ever again about making ends meetWilson Fisk paid and paid well.

Flint just hadn't ever thought he'd get mixed in with aliens, mutants-that-weren't, or fucked up shit like _this_.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

**The first stage of the Hunger is the waking-dream.**

How long had it been since he woke up here?

It was getting hard to tell now. It wasn't like he had a watch to find out.

A few days, maybe. Had to be under a week…but it seemed like forever and a day already.

Eddie lay on his side on the cot, staring sullenly at the black wall across from him. He hadn't heard his Other's "voice" in a while; while it wasn't technically a voice in the human sense – more a collection of impulses, feelings, emotions that he could somehow _read_ – he still missed it. At least it was there at all, in the background, but being deprived of its normal activity in his mind made him cranky. He'd gotten so used to the feel of the symbiote invading every part of his mind that it felt lonely without its active puttering around the house. One was, after all, the loneliest number.

Alistair was watching, but Eddie refused to give the man more to look at and take notes on if he could help it. Marko came by with a plate of food twice, but he ignored the other man, only keeping an eye on him to make sure he wouldn't attack them. They were more concerned with trying to figure out how to defeat their collar and escape than petty revenge (although they weren't _completely_ against it if the opportunity presented itself).

Looking down at the food – steak, mashed potatoes and orange juice – Eddie finally got up and began to restlessly prowl the length of the white and black cell, feeling faintly nauseated like he'd eaten something bad just by the sight of the tray. Eventually they would have to go back and fuel their shared body with the inferior human food, the overcooked dead cow and pulped orange extract, but soon that wouldn't be enough. Eddie paced the cell, making several rounds and trying to focus on a plan to get the fuck out of here.

They'd already tried sawing through the collar, but Alistair caught them. He also nipped their attempt in the bud to short it out by worming a small tendril into the circuits. That hadn't been fun at all, his Other's agony his own as it suffered the shocks until they grudgingly submitted.

Eddie bit his lip, frowning, hands nervously working at his sides as he paced. Alistair had to make a mistake sometime. He was only human. Eddie knew more than anyone else that humans and mistakes went hand in hand like marriage and divorce.

"Would you like something to read?" Alistair suddenly asked. "You look bored."

Eddie presented the camera with his back.

"Your shoulder's healing nicely, I see. I can't help but notice you seem to have accelerated healing."

Closing his eyes, Eddie grit his teeth. It was a struggle to control their temper. Was Alistair trying to goad them or was he being sincere? For all he knew, Alistair didn't care either way; flying off the wall at their imprisonment would probably provide him all kinds of data and give him another chance to use the shock-collar. And replying only answered his question. Silence was still the best idea, at least, until Alistair decided to use the collar to "encourage" them to speak.

Eddie had done his fair share of pieces on prison and criminals in his life – his _past_ life, he corrected himself – but somehow he'd never thought he'd actually end up on the receiving end of a jail-term. _Trapped_. That'd been the common sentiment when he interviewed the inmates and it was entirely accurate. Shooting a murderous glare up at the camera, feeling like a rat in a cage and suddenly feeling _sorry_ for rats, Eddie dropped himself back onto the cot and rolled over, wishing they'd at least given him a goddamn blanket. The tray of food was still within reach. Looking at it prompted the same wave of unexplained nausea as it had before.

Closing his eyes, he tried to get some sleep. They'd need their rest…

_The next thing Eddie knew, his eyes were open. Only there was nothing to see, only a void of black, endless, endless space, stretching before them into infinity. The symbiote was there, giving a collective shiver that its Host shared. _This was it_, it said, not so much in words, but in the ancient projection of its self that Eddie knew so well. This was it. _

_What was it?_

The beginning of our withdrawal symptoms. Without Phenylethylamine, we will suffer soon enough.

_What was Phenylethylamine?_

It is the reason we feed on others. Without access to it regularly we will suffer_, the symbiote repeated. _

_It has begun. _

How do you know? _asked Eddie. He stood on the edge of the abyss and looked out at it. It felt impossibly alien and he couldn't even begin to comprehend just what he was seeing, being only human, being too primitive to understand the danger on his own. He looked at it with as much fear as a child probably would look at an oncoming car. Probably a bad analogy, but Eddie plain just couldn't understand it. But his Other…his Other recognized it and withdrew in instinctual fear. Humans had their mind-pictures called 'dreams'. Symbiotes did not. Correction: _healthy _ones did not. For a symbiote to dream, to see what was _not there_, what they _knew _was _not there_, was what Eddie would call a_ warning flag

"Check him."

_This was one such warning flag. _

"I'm getting' tired of your mind games, Brock."

_Eddie wanted to turn toward the symbiote, feeling as if he should be afraid to ask what was next. Yet he felt nothing. He only knew that that stretch of infinity terrified it; it felt welcome traveling the depths of space, with the cold light of the stars and galaxies as its guide… But _this _was another beast entirely._

_They still had to mate. The beginning of the hunger would complicate - _

A hand touched him.

Eddie jolted awake with a violent start, his heart leaping. Flint Marko fell back, swearing:

"_Christ_!"

"Today's just full of surprises," Alistair remarked, unable to contain his surprise. "Marko, you may leave. False alarm."

Eddie looked around, confused, and more than a little annoyed. They were sorely tempted to try to take on Marko now as he was leaving, but decided against it. There was no way they'd cover it from the cot to the door before the collar activated. Heaving a sigh, Eddie turned his attention to the camera. It was bad enough that they still refused to give him clothes or even a blanket. If he wasn't going to get any sleep either, he was going to be very pissed very fucking soon and to hell with whether they got shocked!

Flipping off the camera this time, Eddie lay back down on the cot. Within a few minutes he'd drifted off into uneasy sleep again, body relaxing, breathing slowing in response, shallow and even.

His eyes, however, were still open.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

**The second stage of the Hunger is the involuntary fast.**

Eddie Brock now regularly slept with his eyes open.

Alistair Smythe was in love.

Of course it wasn't the shallow "romantic" attachment one human displayed toward another. He was above that. No, this was a love of discovering something _new_, a pure appreciation for figuring out how an alien – an honest to God _alien_ - ticked.

Everything about Brock was just so fascinating, so _enthralling_, that he had to remind himself to catch a bite here and there, a nap in the corner of his lab, otherwise he wouldn't be able to function and continue his research to the best of his ability. There were plenty of assistants at his disposal – Fisk promised him the best and was true to his word – but Alistair only trusted himself for the personal monitoring of the specimen. It was a hassle when Fisk's flunkie Marko kept popping in to get progress reports, but he suffered through it all for the sake of science. All for the sake of his one true love.

Today Brock was again pacing the length of his cell, as usual. It reminded Alistair of a caged tiger prowling about its prison; incredibly cliché, yes, but it fit the bill all the same. It was a bit disheartening to realize he probably wouldn't see this marvelous "black monster" of Marko's and Silver Sable's any time soon, but one would simply have to be patient. Once they understood more about this alien parasite, the further they could proceed in isolating its components and _controlling_ it – Fisk had said he had a _very_ specific use for it in mind, but to be frank, Smythe didn't much care if this was the next evolution in warfare or the next cure for cancer. _He_ just wanted to study this creature and its human host. If he'd known what he was getting into when Marko dropped that remarkable blood sample on his hands, he would've even worked for free.

Bringing one of the many daily reports in front of him with a flick of his fingers, Alistair could see that there was a potential problem developing: Brock was eating rapidly less and less of the food they gave him, and Alistair felt fairly sure that it had something to do with why he was now sleeping with his eyes open. He'd been ravenous before, despite his obvious distrust.

Now it looked like the mere sight of food sickened him.

Alistair was torn between concern and interest. _I don't want him to starve on us_. But on the other hand, he was also wondering just what Brock _did_ want to eat now. His other activities hadn't exactly changed: he paced, he slept, and he spent more and more time…well, Alistair wasn't sure if it was plain old fornication with that creature, but it certainly seemed that way. It wasn't unusual for Brock to pace and pace, and then suddenly drop whatever he was doing and spread his legs, the very picture of obedience to what looked like nothing more than an animate blob of oil.

Humans devolving. That was what it looked like. As if Brock had suddenly up and tired of being at the top of the food chain and decided to go the other way. Sure, he could still think and talk (and he _did_ talk, even if often it was seemingly to himself), but it was fairly obvious that he wasn't in charge of his shared body. For once the human was the definite inferior.

There was something almost charmingly primitive about it all.

Flint Marko didn't seem to think so. The man, always shedding his infernal _sand_ all over the place, in fact seemed to be bothered by it.

Oh well. Alistair cupped the still steaming mug of hot chocolate one of his assistants had brought in, blowing on it delicately as he watched the center screen. He fumbled with it in surprise when Marko suddenly cleared his throat behind him.

"What do you want?" Alistair snapped, relieved he hadn't tipped the hot chocolate all over his terminal. "It better be good!"

Marko was unfazed. He held up what looked like some security photos and slapped them down. "It's important. Take a look."

Glancing at Marko with disdain (the man was a common thief, an idiotic _thug_), Alistair set down his mug and picked up the photos. They were grainy and not too clear, having been taken at night, but he spotted what looked like a human wearing some kind of blue and red bodysuit. He was in each shot, sometimes almost out of the frame.

"Spider-man's been takin' an awful lot of interest snoopin' around Fisk Tower. _That_ just came in last night. Security says he was tryin' to find a way in."

Alistair's brow knit. "Why?" A terrible thought dawned on him. "Does he know Brock's here?"

"I'd be surprised if he didn't."

Alistair started to order Marko to _take care_ of this intruder – nothing like euphemisms to keep your hands clean – when he paused. He remembered reading in the brief that Brock had seemed awfully interested in Spider-man's welfare, going so far as to come running when Marko had him at his mercy before trashing the New York Public Library. _Why?_ It hadn't seemed important at the time, but now that they had Spider-man potentially knocking on Fisk's door…

Hmm.

Frowning, Alistair glanced back at the hovering screen before him. Brock was once again going through his ritual of semi-masturbation with even more enthusiasm than before, splayed in the corner of the cell with his legs shamelessly spread and propped up by tendrils of black ooze. His bare hips rolled with the undulating motion of the gleaming tentacles. The nude blond looked in a world all of his own. His eyes drifted closed, mouth panting open, fangs peeping out past parted lips.

Alistair watched the display for a moment with about as much emotion if it was just a wildlife documentary – which, in a way, it was.

From what Alistair knew of Eddie Brock's background, the man hated Spider-man. It didn't make sense why he'd do a one-eighty and get so possessive, going so far as to _rescue_ him unless there was a good reason. Sipping at his hot chocolate, Alistair gazed absently at the screen with Brock, mulling it over. The man wasn't a human anymore, didn't make choices and _act_ like a human; he was a slave to whatever instincts that alien had and merely reacted as such, judging by how he dropped everything to make it happy. No action. Only reaction.

_Instincts_ …Wait…

Alistair looked back at Marko, turning over the barest glimmers of a hunch in his mind. He wasn't sure what Brock's instincts meant exactly, but he had a feeling that putting Spider-man and Brock together would produce some incredible results, so long as the superhero didn't manage to run off with his specimen. "Leave Spider-man alone for now. I don't care if he gets inside so long as he doesn't damage my equipment."

Marko fidgeted uncomfortably, trying his best not to look at Brock on-screen getting reamed over and over. "What about _him_?"

"Just make sure he doesn't leave that room. But if Spider-man happens to find him..." Alistair knew he was gambling here. But that particular room was heavily reinforced to give a _Hulk-Lite_ (Marko's words, not his) a run for his money. The walls could also be electrified; a little addition once they found out Brock was particularly vulnerable to electricity. Not to mention Marko was still around. "It won't be a loss. I want to see what happens when they're together."

Alistair turned back to his work as Marko left. It was exciting and everything, but there was still the matter of feeding the subject. He hadn't eaten more than a few bites in over a day, and he hadn't seen him even touch the tray at _all_ today. Alistair would have to start sending in one of his assistants to see that he ate whether he liked it or not.

This fasting would have to stop.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

_This seriously isn't going to work._

Peter Parker checked himself in the mirror, frowning. He'd combed his hair neatly to the side, out of his face for once, and he was what Aunt May would've said was _suspiciously respectable _– if she'd been here, which, thankfully, she wasn't. Too many awkward questions that he didn't want to have to evade.

He'd been right when he guessed Fisk would've Spidey-proofed his place. The glass was too strong for him to go through, and the security systems were off the wall; no telling what would happen if he just went tripping about the usual way. The back door approach, his personal favorite, wasn't going to cut it, which led him to the front door approach…which was looking increasingly stupid and flimsy even though he was running out of ideas. What he needed was to get inside and to try to be a bit _less_ flashy about it than crawling around in his red and blues.

For all intents and purposes, Peter Parker was going to try to get a job at Fisk Towers.

Okay, so he wasn't even eighteen yet but he did have to admit that he looked a bit older and more mature once he'd dressed up. While he was leery about walking into the proverbial lion's den asking for a job interview, it was still better than his original idea (something with trying to pop up on Fisk's doorstep posing as pizza boy – he didn't know _what_ he'd been thinking). _I can't believe I'm doing this. This's nuts!_ Not only was he wandering in out of costume, he was also wearing the nice slacks and dress shirt that he _wasn't_ supposed to wear until he graduated. Aunt May would kill him not only for skipping the ten o'clock curfew, but also breaking said rules in that suit.

But that was the best, most formal piece of clothing he had and if he was going to try to get into Fisk Towers, he had to look as adult and well-groomed as possible.

Peter adjusted the tie nervously, frowning at the mirror. It was amazing what cleaning up your act could do: the person in the mirror looked like a young man _maybe_ just beginning college, a bit on the short side, but at least not some scrawny, scared sixteen year-old. Aunt May always said he should get all that hair out of his eyes so she could see the face of her boy. Now he had. It seemed to make a world of difference. He'd gained a few pounds in weight – almost all muscle - after becoming Spider-man and while it didn't make much of a difference in street clothes, it seemed to make him look more adult now that he was _suspiciously respectable_.

Wondering what else he could try to do to maintain that illusion, Peter practiced not slouching for once. He stood up straight. The mental image of Eddie Brock, half-sitting on the edge of a desk, smartly dressed and giving him a lop-sided smile, suddenly bubbled up in his mind.

Not his preferred choice for inspiration, but…Eddie used to carry himself like he knew what he wanted, how to get it, and who to start sweet-talking to help him _get my foot in the door_, according to Eddie. Confidence. That was the name of the game. Peter had to look like he wasn't dealing with a hundred different things at once, things that _normal_ kids didn't deal with. But he just couldn't just slip into his Spidey-mindset either; for one, he wasn't behind the mask and it wasn't quite the same as giving a good, old school beat-down to the latest modelers of ski-mask fashion.

This problem he faced now couldn't be solved by fists or one-liners.

Shrugging into the suit's coat, Peter checked his wallet and the briefcase he'd found in the basement. It was his dad's, but he was sure he wouldn't have minded him dusting it off and using it. Inside was a fake resume, miscellaneous fake papers and the fake-ID he totally wasn't supposed to have either, much like the graduation suit. It was for a good cause. It probably wouldn't fool them for too long – it would just take one background check before he'd have to bug off – but it might give him enough time to find out where Brock was being held. To get his foot in the door.

_Okay. Here goes._ Gathering up his stuff and making sure to dart out the door before Gwen caught up to him, Peter left the house, taking the short flight of stairs in a jump.

The bus trip to the city seemed to take forever when he couldn't just websling his way over. No web shooters, no costume, nothing that could potentially get him linked to Spider-man _or_ Peter Parker. If he got caught, he didn't want trouble following him home. Peter stared down at the briefcase in his lap, absently reaching up and pushing his old glasses up the bridge of his nose. The thought that _this is nuts_ and _this is more than nuts, it's _crazy kept circling in his head. While he'd managed to keep a cool face, he certainly didn't feel very cool inside; he was so nervous that he almost missed his stop.

Stepping off the bus, Peter craned his head to gaze up at Fisk Towers, knuckles white around the briefcase handle. He hated everything that Kingpin stood for, but he knew now that he couldn't get at the man and bring him to justice unless he managed to cover each and every loophole: for a big fat guy, Fisk had a way of worming his way out of just about any inconveniences, like going to prison for cold-blooded murder. He was living proof that all you needed was obscene amounts of money and you could suddenly get away with anything. And that was just the Jolly White Giant as a _human_ – Peter didn't even want to think of what happened if he had full access to the symbiote.

Wilson Fisk couldn't be allowed to have Brock.

Swallowing, Peter focused his attention groundside. _Project Eddie. Just try to channel how you saw him act around people when he was normal and _not _crazy. _Peter strode through the glass doors and was relieved that he didn't miss as step as he entered what had to be the largest lobby known to man. It was bustling with activity, with people that he was sure looked a _lot_ older than him crossing the elegantly tiled floors, and yet no one was pulling him aside and giving him a boot to the sidewalk. The sheer size of the place made the trip to the receptionist's desk, a solid wood and black marble affair, seem to take forever.

The man behind the desk looked up. "May I help you?"

Peter knew this whole thing was insane and probably going to end badly, but at least he'd done his research. It wasn't like he'd gone in on the hopes that someone would just _happen_ to be hiring. "I'm hoping to apply for a job," Peter said. "I think a researcher called Alistair Smythe was in need of some positions filled?"

The receptionist eyed him, thinking he was awfully young, but after a second turned to his computer and consulted the flat screen.

Peter waited. It took a conscious effort to remain still and not move restlessly, much less look relaxed like he had every right to be here. He couldn't see how Eddie – not Brock, not this "Venom", but the Eddie he used to know – had managed it and managed it so effortlessly. It was really, really hard to act like you belonged when you didn't.

"You made it just in time. He's seeing candidates now on the sixty-third floor. Your name?"

Peter managed not fumble for his fake name, instead tilting his head to the side. "Stanley Kaine."

"Mr. Smythe will be paged to let you know you're on your way. You may use the elevator behind me."

A bit surprised that was all it took (no interrogation? Nothing?), Peter obediently headed for the elevator, keeping a tight grip on the briefcase and wondering when his luck would give out. So far so good – he'd managed to make it past the receptionist. Now it was a matter of trying to get past this Alistair Smythe and seeing if he could find any clues to help him locate Brock. He was starting to feel slightly more positive about this as he approached the elevators just as the doors opened before him:

And out stepped Silver Lady.

Peter felt his face pale, seeming to grow slightly numb. She was still here! She knew who Peter Parker was, had to have seen his face at some point. Would she recognize him? _Keep walking. Don't stare._ Peter kept his eyes forward as the woman came sauntering his way, a long black coat over her white uniform, lugging two large steel cases. He couldn't help, however, watching her out of the side of his peripheral vision as she went past: she'd seen him and was now glancing at him curiously as if suffering déjà vu. Catching the elevator before the door closed, Peter slid in without any hurry, though his heart was thundering in his chest. She couldn't have got more than a glimpse and anyway, he hadn't done anything suspicious like quicken his step or react.

Peter didn't see Silver Sable stop. He didn't see her turn, stare at the closed elevator doors thoughtfully, and almost seem to smile before she turned on her heel and left.

Her contract was over. What she just saw was irrelevant in her opinion.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

"I don't want to eat!" Eddie snarled peevishly. "I just don't, okay?"

He felt sick. Really sick. His arms and legs hurt, stomach hurt, and most of all, his head hurt like the mother of all migraines coming back with a vengeance. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Eddie was all for huddling in a corner in self-pity, but it seemed that fucker Alistair wouldn't have any of that. Eddie couldn't help the way his body wanted to shiver and tremble like he was some kind of messed up junkie. He couldn't help how it seemed like he was just itching for an excuse – more so than before – to jump the next person that ventured in his cell.

Only it wasn't for sex. No, he felt a rising urge to kill, to feed.

_- that delicious crack that signaled the skull was breached - _

Eddie shuddered. The further into this hunger they sank, the more these bizarre flashes of his Other's past feeding habits kept cropping up…and now he was starting to feel like they weren't as repulsive as he'd first thought. The third and final step that he knew was coming wasn't here yet – he could still think intelligently and plan – but he knew when it did come, there would be no turning back. Someone would have to die and die messily. Hopefully Alistair or Marko would make the mistake of entering the cell when they were like this. Preferably Alistair, seeing as Marko had been wisely absent from the cell for the past few days.

Right now Alistair had sent one of his idiot assistants to try to coax Eddie into eating again. They liked to pretend to play nice before their boss would chime in on the speakers: _Mr. Brock, if you don't eat_ something_, I will be forced to encourage you to_. Eddie would grudgingly eat only then, but half the time he couldn't keep it down very well, the bile rising in his throat as he tried to choke down perfectly good food. At times he was sorely tempted to just take the shock collar like a man rather than suffer through the torture of being made to eat what they couldn't digest.

His world was rapidly narrowing down to only two things.

Peter Parker and this other hunger.

Sometimes they blurred together. Sometimes Eddie fancied that he wanted to taste everything of the Spider, every last _inch_ of his delicious flesh inside and out, and it always took a too-long second to realize he meant it literally. And that he was one hundred percent serious.

Alistair's assistant, a fresh-faced young woman with a smattering of freckles, frowned at him – she was doing her best not to look down the fact he was still ass-naked and failing miserably – and held out the tray. "Please, you need to eat, Mr. Brock."

"Leave me alone."

"It's for your own good."

"I don't care. I can't eat that."

"It's fine, we just made it a few minutes ago. Please eat."

Eddie got to his feet, towering over the woman by a good foot. "_No_." He leaned down, somehow aware of the pulse running in her throat, the same pulse that he could _feel_ right above her eyebrows. He didn't even need to be whispering breathily into her ear to know that it was his Other's sense of prey that was kicking in. "Now, look. You're cute. Nice legs. But if you bug me one more time, I'm going to fucking disembowel you so fast you'll still by wondering why you feel a draft."

His lips curled in an empty smile as he pulled back, as if he'd just been flirting with her, his eyes meeting hers. Her face was bloodless.

"Door's behind you," Eddie drawled, lounging on the cot.

The smirk dropped once the assistant fled, practically running out. Eddie waited tensed on the cot. He expected to get a nice _fuck you _from the shock collar, but, surprisingly, nothing happened even after a few minutes passed. Was Alistair asleep on the job? Eyebrows drawing together, Eddie frowned, glancing around and up at the camera hole, puzzled and letting his confusion war with his hunger. It felt good to be distracted and he debated trying to smash through the glass while they had this freedom – if it even was that, and not another one of Alistair's tricks.

It didn't feel very good, this all too human wavering, this disgusting uncertainty. They hated it and yet they were forced to come to terms with it. There was the chance that Alistair didn't do anything on purpose, wanted to tempt them into revealing more of their abilities just so he could have more data, have more of _them_. Eddie didn't even bother fighting off the spike of jealousy. He and the symbiote belonged together, dammit. No one else!

And certainly not some faceless hack. He refused to give Alistair more insight into their special bond.

Where _was_ he, anyway?

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

"You're lacking in actual job experience, but I suppose that can be attributed to the fact that you're in college," Alistair Smythe said. "Quite a mind you have there, Mr. Kaine. I think I have a position for you."

Peter couldn't believe this. He thought he'd get far, but not _this_ far! Barely remembering to play it cool (he was supposed to be an adult, after all), Peter only nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Smythe smiled, but it was a smile without any warmth – purely professional. Polite though. The man nodded toward the door, his wheelchair quietly humming as he led the way down the hall, Peter following behind. He couldn't help staring at the wheelchair; for one, it was like anything he'd seen, a sleek, streamlined affair that seemed to actually _hover_ several inches above the carpet and almost completely silent except for the faintest of hums. The science geek in him was dying to know how it worked, but it probably wasn't the most appropriate thing to just start asking about. Reaching up and adjusting his glasses, Peter stepped up the pace. He suppressed a wince. Dress shoes? _Not_ that comfortable.

As they waited for the elevator that Smythe accessed with a keycard, Peter frowned, suddenly thinking of something. "Don't you want to do a background check on me first? Before you hire me?"

"That would be the standard procedure, yes. But I expect this to be extremely short term."

"What do you need me to do?"

Smythe turned in his chair. "How ethical do you consider yourself, Mr. Kaine?"

"I'm sorry?"

"It's a simple question. The work we do here is very delicate, but _vital_. Some of it might disturb those with frailer moral sensibilities. I might as well get it out in the open right now: my employer and I don't tolerate the squeamish."

That didn't sound good. "Try me."

"How do you feel about mutants?"

Peter paused. He thought they were a bit…well, _weird_, but in their defense, this was all coming from a guy with equally weird spider-powers. But judging from what Smythe said earlier, it sounded like defending the mutants wasn't the answer he was looking for. "I, uh, don't really support them, if that's what you're asking."

"Do you think they should have the same rights that normal humans do?"

Now this was awkward territory.

"No."

"But shouldn't they deserve to be treated for their...problem? To regain those rights?"

"Yes."

Apparently that was the right answer. Smythe smiled again. "Good." The elevator slid open silently and he steered the hoverchair inside, pressing a button that wasn't numbered; it was just a pale shade of purple that glowed as he touched it. "Now I'm sure you're wondering what the squeamish part is. To be short, we're working with a particularly violent mutant patient. I have reason to believe that we can cure him…but he didn't exactly volunteer himself for the cause, and that's where it gets a bit loose ethically."

Peter decided he didn't much care for this Smythe, narrowing his eyes at the back of the scientist's head as the elevator ascended. The man hadn't outright said it, but it sounded like they'd basically kidnapped someone off the street and was holding him against his will indefinitely until he was "treated". _It could be Brock. _How many people could they have picked up? _A lot_, his mind replied, _for all you know they could've transferred him and this's someone else._

"So what's my job?"

Smythe shrugged. "It's not much of a challenge, but you'll need to monitor his feedings. He's been rather stubborn lately. Could be trying to starve himself to make a point, we don't know yet. We fear he might get violent around my other assistants, so I need someone who can handle him. It'll only be short term until we can get him eating again."

This was insane. Peter didn't need to be reminded yet again, but that didn't stop him from thinking it anyway.

He tried counting the floors, but without any level numbers, he realized that he'd have no idea of how high they were now without looking out a window. Eventually the elevator dinged softly, letting them out into a hall that was wide and yet still had a feeling of being cramped. When Peter glanced around, he realized that they were heavily reinforced, the deep blue walls even criss-crossed with some kind of mesh (unfortunately not adamantium, Smythe said with regret). Puzzled, Peter jogged to catch up to Smythe as they navigated the maze of alternating glass and walls, wondering just what kind of "mutant" they were up against.

And suddenly there was a large empty space, so wide that Peter almost stumbled in surprise. Before him was a wide open black floor, dominated by some kind of miniature room – a cell? – lit from inside by white light. It shone like a star in the otherwise dimly lit room, flanked by four windows that looked inches thick. But it wasn't the window that got his attention: it was who was inside.

Peter's lips parted in shock as he recognized the figure inside about to punch a black fist through the window.

"This is your charge, Mr. Kaine."

Smythe only looked amused, leaning down to press a button for some kind of voice projection unit in his hover-chair:

"And Mr. Brock? I wouldn't do that if I were you."

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

It was now or never, Eddie decided. They were going to have to try to escape before that assistant tattled to Alistair about their little threat.

The blond paced around the cell, making one agitated round before coming to one of the black one-way windows, unable to help the little twitches of hunger making him fidget where he stood. Peering at the window, more of a black mirror than anything else, he could only see a shadow of his reflection staring back, as well as the white parts of his cell. "His" cell. Fucking ridiculous. As if it was something he could own. Like a weak little _human_, he was already trying to narrow his worldview to resign himself to captivity, like it could be any worse. Like he should even be thankful he was given this much.

Pathetic. He knew, deep down, from his Other – his pained, desperately hungry Other – that they were destined for great things. Being the newest zoo resident wasn't one of them.

Looking down, Eddie envisioned his fist turning black, turning oily, turning _theirs_. Before he'd even finished the thought, vines of liquid black had overtaken his arm and covered it completely, fingers now ending in claws. Focusing on the opaque glass before him, he targeted his reflection's head, pulling his claws back –

"And Mr. Brock. I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Eddie froze. So Alistair _was_ there! He was about to ignore the man, make a break for the window even if they got shocked, when the window suddenly turned _transparent_. The black faded away. It wasn't perfectly clear, not with the light from behind him, but it was a startling contrast from the walls of nothing he'd been used to. For the first time in days, he could see beyond the confines of the cell as the windows became two-way, revealing a large of expanse of tile surrounding the area and two figures. Eddie zeroed in on the two male humans. One was looked to be in his early forties, a head of black hair swept back neatly, almost obsessively from a high forehead. He had broad shoulders despite the fact he was seated in what looked like the bastard child of a wheelchair and a Corvette.

Judging from the way he was pulling back from the armrest's button, this was the face behind that clipped, British voice. Alistair Smythe.

Eddie's eyes flicked to the shorter man standing slightly behind him and for a second he thought their senses were wrong: everything about him screamed _Spider Parker ours here!_ and yet he looked like a young businessman, not the short, geeky little brat he had the bad luck of entertaining a perpetual hard-on for. It took another long second before he really looked past the professional hair and the glasses, the nice suit, and realized he wasn't wrong, and that the businessman was no businessman at all.

Peter…_Parker?_

Despite himself, Eddie gaped. It was enough of a distraction that he almost forgot that he was starving, that he was quite sure pretty soon he'd go for whatever made the mistake of stepping into his cell. A million questions, thoughts, seemed to flap about his head like so many moths and yet the one that stood out the most was that when Parker shaped up and tucked in his damn shirt for once, he didn't half-ass it. True, he didn't look like he was much over drinking age, but he certainly _looked_ legal. And of course out popped the next thought, which ran something along the lines of _that is really fucking hot._

He almost found it morbidly funny. Like a big sign that he was apparently off-the-walls crazy and loving it. But he was still Eddie, in part, anyway, and he knew that now wasn't the time to be checking out Parker. Or how he'd probably look in a few years if this living snapshot was anything to go by. And while Eddie would like nothing more than to get the personal satisfaction of outing the little fake to Alistair (who said petty revenge wasn't fulfilling?), he also knew that Parker's disguise might be the break they needed to escape. Swallowing down a fresh surge of hate – and all too aware of his throbbing erection – Eddie took a step toward the window.

"So who's this?" Eddie let the claws ooze away. Be careful, be slow. Find out what Spider wanted before making any moves. "And how come you didn't tell me the Wizard of Oz was a cripple?"

Alistair didn't rise to the bait. "This is Stanley Kaine. He'll be encouraging you to eat."

Eddie glared at Parker. He didn't have to fake his dislike.

"You're strapped for help these days if you're trolling colleges now."

"Hardly. But the same rules apply: you are not to injure any of my employees. If you do, there will be consequences that I'm sure you're _quite_ familiar with, Mr. Brock."

Eddie couldn't help but unconsciously touch the cool metal of the shock collar. Oh yes, he was more familiar with the damn thing than he liked. And he had big plans for it when – not _if_ – they got free. See how Alistair liked it around _his_ neck. The fact he was apparently handicapped just made that thought even more entertaining. But Parker was now here, that little bit of added temptation they didn't need, and Eddie could only hope he'd be able to control himself long enough to get the fuck out of here. That was assuming he'd still be rational at that point.

It was hard to keep his eyes off Parker, disguise or not. Right now Eddie was torn between wanting to drag his sorry ass into the cell and strip him right there or punch that innocently clueless look off his smug little face.

"Is it safe to go closer?" Parker played it dumb for now for Alistair's sake.

Alistair nodded. "Make it fast."

The Spider closed the distance between them to the point where there was only the inches thick glass between him and them. Eddie felt blood rushing through his veins, felt the heat from before intensifying to the point where he swore he could feel the thundering beat of his heart in his ears. It wasn't helping that at this distance they could sense that same beat of _life _in Parker, in his skull and his body, and it killed them to think he was still unmarked. Still up for grabs. And with Flint Marko still in the building…

Eddie was almost willing to get jerked off by Marko again if it meant the man was kept busy – and stayed away from Parker.

They locked eyes with the Spider, blood-shot gray meeting hazel. It was easy to lose yourself in Parker's eyes, especially this close; Eddie could make out the flecks of faint green and gold shot in them, making what he knew to be an average brown very attractive. Unique. Eddie looked down, for once feeling ashamed that he was butt-naked in front of the kid, and wishing he could cover up. It seemed a far cry from his memories of being normal, of having a gawky sixteen year-old shadowing him and thinking that his biggest problem was paying off a mortgage and trying _not_ to cuss in front of the newbie.

Eddie looked back up, aware that Parker was still gazing at him, as if waiting for him to say something. He found himself suddenly tired of the boy's pity, his damned _compassion_, recoiling from it like it was poison. He thought he knew everything about Peter Parker from his symbiote's genetic memories of him…yet he still couldn't grasp why he got up every day to save the city from itself. Why he really did what he did and kept on doing it. While Eddie wasn't at all sorry that he became Host to his Other, he did have to admit that things had become decidedly complicated after he woke up with a voice in his head and stolen powers.

The blond turned away from Parker without saying anything, feeling his eyes on him as he crossed the cell and flopped back down on the cot, crossing his arms over his chest.

No, it wasn't the symbiote's fault that things were complicated. That was unfair of him. Eddie scowled at the wall. It was Peter Parker's fault. And while he was here (and they did need the help, unfortunately), he had to come at the _worst _possible time with his typically terrible sense of timing. Now? Now was a really bad time to be mounting a half-assed rescue. Eddie closed his eyes, all too aware now of the feeling of a growing _nothing_ within him, like the void he'd begun seeing ever since the symbiote's first dream. It felt…numb at the core, no thought at all. Just reaction to stimulation. Frankly, it scared him. Eddie was starting to realize just what had got his Other so spooked in the first place.

And it wasn't just that the mere sight of Parker was enough to get him hard that was bothering him.

Eddie was more concerned with the fact that he wasn't sure if he could keep from killing him on accident. Parker had the dubious honor of both being what they lusted for and yet also being human. Being _prey_; he was a potential food source just like everything else here that walked on two legs.

_- Parker under him, writhing, sweat-slicked, bodies pressed up against one another - _

_- warm strings of meat caught between their fangs, blood running down their chin -_

He didn't believe in God. Not after the shit he'd gone through recently.

But Eddie Brock still prayed to Him anyway.

_Just give me more time. I know I've sinned and I'm past redemption, but please…hear me out._

Funny thing how people always turned to make-believe when they were shit out of luck.

_Whatever You do, don't let me kill Peter Parker._

**To be continued...**  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

The mating scene should be very soon now: in the next chapter, hopefully. :3


	10. Mating

**Black Sustenance**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: Naturally I don't own Spider-man.  
**Author Notes: **Thank you once again for all the reviews: I really appreciated them. I'm sorry for the huge delay. Short story is a lot of things came up, computer died multiple deaths, among other things.

Anyway same old story: while I do ship Venom/Spider-man, plot comes first.

_Italics_ for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote  
**Archive**: Sure, just ask.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X  
Black Sustenance  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(Mating)

Judging by the army of assistants Alistair Smythe already had, the amount of help wasn't exactly a problem.

Peter Parker was fairly sure that this was more than a little bit suspicious. _Does he know? He doesn't act like he does._ Peter had spent the better portion of his first day and a half getting a crash course tour of the floors he was told he needed to know; from what he'd seen, security from the inside wasn't as tight as the outside of the Tower, at least not beyond Eddie Brock's cell-thing. Whatever it was. Smythe said it was "temporary sleeping accommodations", but Peter knew a prison when he saw one.

That was interesting and all, and probably highly relevant, but that still didn't answer the question of why he was here. Sure, he'd applied, but no background check? Getting hired on the first try? What was it Smythe said the first day?

_I expect this to be extremely short term. _Key emphasis on _short term_

Pretty ominous looking back on it. Ominous as in bordering on supervillian-euphemism ominous. Did Smythe mean he already knew Peter was faking? Or maybe he didn't; maybe it was still shady, but not for the reasons Peter thought? So far he hadn't any indication that Smythe knew he was Peter Parker, much less Spider-man. The teenager wanted to sigh. He missed the days when he could just web up the bad guys on a lamppost and let the cops sort it out. No point just wishing things were back to how they were used to be, though. Peter glanced down at the clipboard he'd been given by one of the female assistants (he called her "Freckles" in his head) to deliver, and tried to figure out if there was anything sinister on it. Looking around furtively, Peter lifted up the cover sheet and snuck a peek at the papers underneath.

It seemed to be all about Brock, which was bad enough. In fact, from what Peter could tell from the glimpse of Alistair's lab, everything in his recent life seemed to revolve around the ex-journalist in some form or another. Peter got the creeps just from stepping through the Star Trek door and seeing that bank of screens shimmering in the air, with Smythe sitting before them like some kind of conductor.

The results on clipboard seemed to be about some kind of condition Brock had. It sounded almost like some sort of sickness, especially when the word "withdrawal" and "chemical imbalance" kept cropping up. Peter frowned. As far as he knew, Brock had been a typically healthy human before all this, maybe more so than usual – he didn't smoke and the only thing he seemed to drink was Red Bulls. But Peter supposed that getting buddy-buddy with a symbiote wasn't the most healthy lifestyle choice, especially when you didn't know where the thing had been in the first place. It probably didn't help the symbiote could choose what it wanted you to know – he'd found that out the hard way and nearly electrocuted himself in the process. So there was a chance Brock contracted some kind of crazy space flu once he came into contact with the symbiote.

Peter didn't have time to get a closer look, letting the coversheet flutter back into place as Freckles rounded the corner. Out of assistants he'd seen, she was the only one who seemed to take notice of him, much less look up long enough to say something as short as "hi". All he knew was that she'd been Brock's "feeder" before…until he'd threatened her to rip her guts out. Now she refused to go into that cell unless someone was with her.

Peter was apparently that someone.

He only hoped Brock would have enough self-control not to try the same with him. Brock might not like it, but Peter was his ticket out of here; his only ticket, actually, because he was pretty sure that one, no one knew where he'd vanished to, and two, no one except Peter would try something as monumentally stupid as to try to rescue him.

"I was hoping I could catch up to you, Kaine," Freckles said. Her voice sounded hollow in the reinforced corridor and she unconsciously lowered it. "Do you have a minute?"

Peter tucked the clipboard under his arm. "Sure."

"We're scheduled to try to feed Brock in an hour. I'm guessing you haven't dealt with him before?"  
_  
Lady, more than is probably healthy_. "No. I just heard he was a handful."

Freckles laughed harshly. "That's the nice way of putting it."

"I thought that's why we both go. So it won't be too dangerous."

The older woman tried to laugh it off, but her bottom lip trembled slightly. Obviously she was recalling her up close and personal encounter. Peter almost felt sorry for her, but then he remembered who she was working for and decided he didn't feel _that _sorry for her. Besides, he needed to remember his priorities: springing Brock free was at the top of the list, followed by a good knuckle-sandwich Fisk's way (and maybe Smythe, because he just seemed like he deserved it). She'd made a choice to work for these people.

"You jus' have t'learn how t'handle him. Smythe's got him by th' balls with that collar thing."

Peter turned and came face to face with Sand Dude. The man was about to say something, but suddenly paused as he frowned down at the teenager's face, looking puzzled.

"Hey, do I know you?"

"No," Peter said hurriedly. He held out his hand: "I'm Stanley Kaine. I was hired the other day?"

"Flint Marko an' I didn't hear anything about new interns. You sure we didn't met before?"

Freckles spoke up. "What do you want, Mr. Marko?"

"Smythe wants you t' head downstairs. They're runnin' more tests," Marko rolled his eyes, "So you lucked out of th' feedin'"

Freckles breathed a sigh of relief as Peter frowned. "So what should we do now?"

Marko started to walk away. "How would I know? I'm sure Smythe'll think up somethin' to keep you two busy."

Peter watched as he walked away. Freckles turned to him.

"I suppose we'll have to report to Mr. Smythe, but at least we don't have to deal with Brock," she offered a smile. "Let's go."

Peter followed Freckles down the hall. From what he understood, these three floors were dedicated to Smythe's "research": the top was the observation deck, with his freaky Big Brother setup. The next was the prison level, all devoted to Brock's lonesome, and the third was the actual laboratories. While the first two bothered him, it was the last level which was the real piece of work. The last floor was just as clean and impersonal as the others, but it was where he could actually see what they were working on. And, following Freckles through more of Smythe's Star Trek doors (he seemed to love those things), Peter could see that today they were actually working on Brock himself.

The blond was lying on his back on a mix between a table and steel chair, surrounded by researchers. Tubes hooked up into his arms and chest, winding over the straps stretched snug across his naked chest and arms. At least he looked unconscious; Peter couldn't see Brock putting up with this without a fight, although the fact he was here at all was troubling, even if he was probably hopped up on drugs. How much did they know about Brock and his new best friend? Peter didn't know too much about the research here, but he did know that Fisk and his cronies managing to duplicate the symbiote – if that was even their plan – would be a bad, bad idea. Adjusting his glasses, Peter trailed after Freckles, the older woman leading them around Brock and to another room, where another of the researchers was standing behind some kind of thick, shielded glass and manipulating a black vial with gloved hands. He paused as the two entered the room.

"Where's Mr. Smythe?" Freckles asked.

"Went upstairs for a sec, said he'll be right back."

"Any more progress on the sample?"

"Well, lately it's been reacting to…"

Peter ignored them as he watched the vial. He wasn't exactly sure what the man was doing, but the vial looked like it was holding weakly bubbling oil under the glow of the lamps. Probably from Brock, although he could swear he saw some faint swirls of red mixed in with the black. Red wasn't exactly Brock's color, but it could just be as a result from whatever the sample had been subjected to in the tests. Yet another thing he'd have to look into, Peter sighed. Assuming he could smuggle Brock out, he'd have to come back here and make sure to destroy whatever research they had, such as these samples.

"Just the two people I was looking for," Smythe suddenly said from behind.

Peter turned. Smythe appeared as unperturbed as ever, as if he was out for a stroll. He looked the same as yesterday and the day before, and Peter would've sworn he didn't sleep if it wasn't for the fact that he had different clothes on. The British scientist steered his hoverchair back toward the main lab, not looking back to see if his two employees were following. "Alison, I need you to run these downstairs. My employer wants to have them on his desk before his flight."

He handed a pair of neatly compiled folders to her, glancing at Peter as Freckles left. Peter wanted nothing more than to intercept that folder – probably all the information on Brock – before it got to its destination, and it was a struggle to just remain standing as if this wasn't any of his business.

"As for you. You'll go with upstairs with Brock once we're finished here and see that he's settled back in his cell. Make sure he eats."

"Yes, sir."

Smythe paused, and then, rifling through the paperwork he had on him, casually handed Peter a piece of paper. "Take a look at this."

Peter looked down. His breath caught in his chest as he took in what he was seeing. It was a grainy photo, but he could still make out the red and blues of his Spider-man outfit. "What's this?" he managed to say, surprised he sounded confused instead of guilty.

"An unwanted guest. I was told he was spotted around the premises."

Peter handed back the photo, wordlessly, unsure what he was expected to say. Smythe wasn't looking at him any differently, and, in fact, looked nonplussed over the whole matter, as if he was asking for a professional's opinion and was taking it into consideration even though Peter hadn't actually _said _anything yet. "There's a great chance we'll have to transfer the subject to a new location in the immediate future, just to take some precautions. I'll expect you to spread the word and be ready to assist with the transfer."

_ What was _that _all about?_ Peter turned the encounter over and over in his head during his shift, but no matter how he looked at it, how he tried to argue or rationalize it, he came to the same conclusion: he couldn't tell if Smythe was onto him or not. It was possible it was a trap, but if they moved Brock, there was no telling if he'd have another chance to spring the man and get him out of Fisk's clutches. Peter worried it over as he followed the gurney with the unconscious man still strapped in, glancing around the other employee to check up on him. Brock's head lolled drunkenly as they went through the reinforced halls back to his cell, and he was only just starting to wake up by the time he was already inside.

Watching Brock starting to come around, Peter almost felt sorry for him. Even though what he knew Brock did, no one deserved getting put under the microscope like this and treated like some kind of expensive lab equipment.

Peter reached into the lab coat, and pulled out a sample needle, nodding to the other assistant that he'd be fine alone with Brock. It was apparently standard procedure to continually draw blood from Brock before and after each of these "check ups"; it'd give Peter now the chance to hopefully get in a word edgewise to Brock. Crossing the white floor, the teenager bent down toward the naked man, willed himself to keep his eyes on his face and not any lower, and knelt close.

Locating a vein in the crook of his elbow, Peter gazed at Brock's face._ I know you're all sedated and while that does _wonders _for your personality, I really, really need you awake right now_, he thought.

Brock groaned, his eyes flickering open for a moment. They fixed on Peter for a second with only dumb, glassy-eyed incomprehension, and then the blond stiffened once the thought finally found a place to click.

"I know what you're thinking," Peter whispered, lips barely moving as he glanced at the needle, keeping his head bent. The camera was top down. "And you're right, this's the dumbest thing ever."

Brock only stared. It made Peter uneasy, the way he looked at him. Not just the hate, which he was only too familiar with, but also this look like he'd like nothing more than to eat him from breakfast. Freckles said that Brock looked at _everyone _like that, but still. She hadn't known Brock when he was normal and alien-free, and couldn't know how freaky it was to have someone you knew and thought you liked look at you like that. But at least he was listening…that or he was too drugged out to put up a fight. Peter decided to be optimistic and hope it was the first one.

Peter withdrew the needle, bending down to the task, his words almost inaudible. Brock had great hearing, even hopped up, so he'd probably still pick up what he said. Peter didn't want to risk Smythe overhearing.

"Tomorrow night. Be ready."

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Flint Marko knew what he saw.

He just wasn't sure what he wanted to do about it now. He went about playing Smythe's crony absentmindedly, trying to decide where to go from here and for once distracted from that freak show Smythe called the observation deck. Spider-man was _here_. Flint was sure of it. While he didn't much care for the little runt after their first couple of encounters, he still couldn't say he could turn his back on a kid just waltzing in here; Spider-man was over his head, way over, and was probably going to get caught. Smythe would have a field day with not one, but two freaks.

The worst part of knowing all this was the fact that Flint wasn't so sure he could look the other way this time.

Right now he was very damn disillusioned with his job, and while the money – an ridiculous, disgustingly huge amount that had more zeros than should be possible – was already wired into another account overseas, he was still left with a seriously bad taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the prospect of an early retirement.

Flint saw to it that Smythe's latest report was in Fisk's hands before taking a good, long stroll outside to think, hands shoved in his pockets. Quite frankly, after this job, with the money already paid up front, Flint was set for life. So was the family he'd been goddamn careful about concealing from Fisk: his mother was safely off in New Zealand now (what safer place than one at the opposite end of the world?), and his daughter Penny was already on her way to join her. Fisk could reach far, but the only thing he could contend with now was Flint himself, and Flint was willing to bet that if it was mano a mano, he'd be able to take the fat bastard. He was only a normal human.

The idea of crossing Wilson Fisk even so wasn't too appealing.  
_  
Maybe I'm just imagining things_, Flint thought, glancing in through a bakery window. _Bullshit. I know that was him._ Sure, the new intern looked older, but he still recognized the face and the voice. No matter how he tried to spin it, there was no pretending that he didn't know that Spider-man was here, right under Smythe's nose, and probably up to no good. It didn't take a rocket scientist to put two and two together and arrive at the conclusion that he was probably here because of Brock; the two seemed to be fucking linked. When one was in trouble, the other would no doubt come knocking soon. Flint was of the opinion that brat or not, Spider-man really should pick his company better. Brock was a sicko and not someone you'd want to take home, much less waste time trying to mount a rescue attempt.

Spider-man was young, but probably not stupid if he lasted this long. Obviously there was _something _about Brock that he thought worth risking it all over. Flint would just have to find out what it was: whatever It was, it could either be valuable to the Kingpin…or perhaps something that would make even Flint think twice about turning it over to one of the richest men in the country.

Swearing under his breath, Flint cursed the fact that he was even having second thoughts about all this shit. That was the problem about having a conscience – it made you soft. Silver Sable simply didn't give a shit, which explained why he was here and she wasn't. It also explained why she was a crazy, cold-hearted bitch flying solo and _he _actually had a pulse.

Flint went past the bakery, despite the fact a croissant looked really good right now. First he'd have to find out what Spider-man was up to before he started getting these retarded thoughts about what he'd "do next", if anything.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

** The third and final stage of the Hunger is the loss of temporal awareness.**

All that matters is _now. _

For Eddie Brock, there is no real past, no future. Just a vague sense that there is something before _now _and that there will be something after _now, _but these concepts are overall meaningless without names. Unimportant. After all, they belong to a different creature that what he is in the present. They belong to a thinking creature. Eddie does not think aside from what his body tells him is worth thinking about. Right now his needs are fairly simple aside from the fact he still wants for anything, which means he is not complete yet.

All that matters is fulfilling the most basic of needs: anything else is a distraction. Eddie feels many things right now. He is tired, cold, hungry, and above all, he is ready to find his mate and procreate. It's in his bones, the growing seed of offspring feeding off his body like the fat leech it is and growing larger still. But it won't spawn until he mates and gives it that extra boost. It's a parasite, something unwanted, probably dangerous, and yet it's instinct that necessitates its birth. Eddie doesn't know how he knows this, only that he does and that he also knows that it is not of the same species he is. It's something different. But it's not here _now _and so it's still just an impression of offspring, not the real thing. When it comes, it will then truly exist for him.

It's mindless, this hunger, an instinct aimed only at preservation. The first priority is to feed himself, to consume the necessary flesh before looking after this feeling of leech growing inside. First come first serve.

Eddie sits in his world, which is only a few feet across, and watches the prey he can't get to without frustration. He can't see them with the black walls, but he knows they are there. It's a sixth sense that's only become stronger and stronger the hungrier he gets. Eddie tracks the various prey moving just beyond his reach like a cat, staring right at them and later getting up to pace, following them until they move away out of range.

It's no use, but he still does it anyway.

Eddie is still tired, cold, hungry, and horny. _I want sleep_, his body says,_ I want warmth, I want food, I want sex. I want I want I wan_t. And his eyes still hurt from the bright lights in the low sky – a "ceiling", he remembers, but doesn't remember from where.

There is no particular order to which of these need to be fulfilled first. Whatever is easiest.

The lights go first.

Not long after he loses his sense of time, Eddie crawls up the black walls and up to the ceiling, and hunts down each and every last light until all are reduced to sparkling powder in his claws. Now his eyes feel better. It doesn't take long to forget they hurt at all because the pain isn't immediate. They are now a figment of what is before _now _and so don't matter anymore.

The collar – somehow he still knows about it, it's a big part of his life – is angry. It gives him pain when he takes out the lights, but after a point it just slides through him like the voice coming from the ceiling without any real understanding. Either it's continuous, and so an accepted fact of life, or it is short and soon forgotten completely. The only thing that remains is a dull resentment, an annoyance, for the thing around his neck even when the shocks are gone. It's the closest thing he has to long-term memory.

Next is sleep. Eddie sleeps a lot. He needs to because if he is going to feed, he needs to conserve strength. Prey is rare wherever he is now and he only has one chance. So he sleeps, using his arms as a pillow, and curls up. The mind-pictures he has, the dreams, are barely distinguishable from when he is awake. He has a lot of mind-pictures about many things: other places, sky of different colors, millions of points of light in a black void.

Eddie is well-rested, but is still cold, hungry, and horny.

He can't do anything about being cold. But he is so well-rested that he can fake-sleep on the floor now without falling into the dreams. Eddie lies on the floor and keeps his eyes almost closed, waiting. Now there is no sense of life walking around the walls. There is nothing to do but wait. Waiting is easy because he is incapable of feeling bored. Each moment is like the first and last, indistinguishable from the other until something happens or a need overshadows the others. But he knows the prey outside, for now beyond his reach, are not like this, don't have this advantage. His instincts tell him that time is on his side because he doesn't know the meaning of impatience. Eventually prey will return, if he can control himself to not react.

Eddie waits.

His instincts are right.

There's two of them. Two legged. Male and female. Both would be nice to mate with, but he senses that they're not proper mating material – inferior blood, inferior genes, inferior all around – and are only good for food. Still, he can't believe his luck. Two, right here, and unprotected by the Spider. And heading right for one part of the walls instead of skirting around it. It's almost too good to be true.

Eddie's hungry enough for both, but he thinks he can only take down one. One will have to do for now; he can move fast enough to kill one but not before the angry collar around his neck will stop him from a second kill. Maim him, maybe, but not kill. It's pitch black in the room, but Eddie can see perfectly, much better without those annoyingly bright lights to get in the way and hurt his eyes. It's an advantage that's decidedly not human, but it doesn't matter – all that matters is that it'll make the actual kill that much easier and expend less energy.

He targets the female because she's the smallest of the two.

The actual attack lasts less than a couple of seconds.

The male steps in first to cover Eddie, swinging a flashlight to bear on him, but he's too slow. Eddie is already across the room, just a blur, knocking the other male down with a powerful stab of his claws to his chest, and on the woman before she can do anything.

It feels good to hunt. Eddie knows that he feels a certain thrill of pleasure when he brings down the female, casually batting away her attempts to push him away, and ejects the claws on his other hand, the liquid black skin gleaming in his night vision. She starts to scream, to cry for help. Too late. Eddie mauls her exposed throat with an instinct born out of desperate, mindless hunger, and the scream turns into a dying gasp, a bubbling wet sound that falls into silence after a few moments. Off in the corner, the wounded male is moaning pitifully, but in no position to stop Eddie.

The collar tries to shock him. Too too, late, and the hunger, the _need_, is a lot stronger than mere physical pain, a far worse, lasting agony. He'll do anything to make it stop. Feeling his body twitching as if from a distance, Eddie bends down to feed even though his body is wracked with the fire burning in his muscles, his veins. It gives up after a few minutes. It's wonderful to eat again – to really, truly eat what he was supposed to – and Eddie's more than happy to hunch over the kill and help himself to the fresh meet inside the skull even if it's hard to coordinate his hands from the shocks.

His hands and chin are coated with blood that isn't his. When he eats, he does so by swallowing without chewing, tossing his head back and skipping the formalities with snaps of his fangs.

After a while, the shocks just…go away. This leaves Eddie to curl up a few feet from his kill and happily lick the blood and other fluids off his hands. Euphoria. It feels so _right_. He is about as content as he can be and is no longer so hungry.

That leaves one more thing that leaves him incomplete, leaves him needing….

And now there is nothing else to distract him from fulfilling that need. It's a hunger of a different kind.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Peter needed a plan. One that was more specific than Plan A, which basically consisted of bust in, knock a few heads, knock _Brock's _head if he gave him trouble, and bust out, booking it in the opposite direction of Queens in case they were followed.

That was all fine in theory…actually carrying it out without winging it completely was another thing entirely.

Peter was muted over dinner with Gwen and Aunt May, poking at the mashed potatoes on his plate and not having much of an appetite for it. Worrying so much about what he'd be doing in a few hours left butterflies fluttering madly in his stomach. Finally he couldn't take it anymore, not when he kept running over the scenario of Brock – or Sand Dude and friends – somehow tracking him to Queens and hunting down his friends and family. Pushing himself up from the table, Peter scooped up his plate.

"You okay, Peter?" Aunt May asked.

Peter offered a nervous smile. "I'm not feeling too hot. Think I'm gonna go to bed early."

He headed upstairs, but was still able to hear some of the conversation from below above the clatter of dishes and running water from the kitchen.

"Is it just me or is Peter acting moody?"

"He'll be okay, Mrs. Parker," Gwen was saying. "Probably just midterm jitters."

Peter paused. His foot froze on the step.

_ Oh my God._

Midterms! How could he forget? Peter resisted the urge to bang his head into something until he was safely back in his room with the door shut behind him. Stupid, stupid stupid! Not only did he have to mount a rescue mission for a man who didn't deserve it, he was also probably going to fail the midterms he didn't even remember coming up because of this mess. Peter paced restlessly around the room. How was he going to explain a bunch of F's to his aunt? First the graduation suit, now this?

Where was a break when you needed one?

_No luck. Seriously, you have _no _luck._ Peter thought angrily as he began to pull on his Spider-man costume._ 'Parker luck' is an oxymoron, that's what it is._ Smoothing back his hair, the teenager pulled on the mask, and moved toward the window, opening it after making sure his webshooters were secured.

It wasn't fair, Spider-man grumbled to himself as he took a running leap from the window and out into the night. Had he pissed off anyone in a past life? Must've, with the way things were turning out. Swinging across the bridge back to Manhattan, Spider-man tried to forget the midterms he was probably-most definitely going to fail and focus on the here and now. He'd studied up on Fisk Tower ever since his first failed attempt to get in and he'd realized there was a way in without completely implicating his original cover as Kaine. Every night, before midnight, there was a garbage collection down in the underground garage – mucking up garbage chutes was hardly his idea of a good time, but that was the only way he could get in, what with the actual building reinforced.

Finally reaching Fisk Tower, he saw that he was still a few hours too early, and there was only so much time he could spend scoping out the place. Spider-man reached up and pushed away his mask above his nose, taking in a deep breath of fresh air. His heart thudded in his chest. He still had no idea about the security or if Brock would even come nicely. He had no idea where Sand Dude or Smythe was. Or if Silver Lady was gone for real.

He was going in blind. He only knew how to get in…not how to get out with cargo who might be less than willing.

Hitching a ride on the garbage truck was easy. Smelly, but easy. Starting his assent up the chute, Spider-man could only hope that no late owls got the idea to start dumping some last minute trash, and held his breath, trying to keep a good count on how many floors up he'd crawled. Between the stench and the questionable feel of _stuff _underneath his gloves, it was hard to pay attention. It was also hard not to get sick, but there was no way he was barfing in his mask; he managed to hold it in, trying to breathe through his mouth and not his nose.

Trying to come up with a plan distracted him for a bit. He figured he could pop out the garbage shoot on the right floor, open the Brock's cell door, _hope _he wouldn't try to kick his ass this time (collared or not), and just leave the way he came. After that, it was a bit of a blank, Spider-man thought, putting one hand above the other and climbing. It'd be easier if Brock could walk on his own and if he put his grudge-fest on the burner until they got away.

Two big if's there.

Popping eventually out on the right floor, Spider-man found himself in one of the labs, the lights dimmed to a gentle blue glow that would've been pretty cool looking if it wasn't for the fact he was up to his neck in enemy territory. He carefully crawled along the wall, flipping his mental map to compensate, and began moving along, stopping on the ceiling to see if he recognized any of it. He'd been here once, twice? A little pit stop before Brock. Stepping down from the ceiling, he retraced his steps, and found himself facing some kind of small refrigerator, its steel surface sleek to the touch. Inside were samples. White, wispy coils of air curled off them as he looked inside. The samples were ordered neatly in a tray, their glass surfaces frosted over.

Yeah, he couldn't leave these.

The blood he dumped down the sink along with a good helping of cleaning fluids. The…other samples, the vials of black ooze that bubbled as he came closer, he didn't risk with the same treatment. He'd learned what happened last time you left this stuff to the trash. Those instead went into the tiny incinerator across the room. Spider-man wanted to sweep the whole room, make sure he'd gotten everything, but he was on borrowed time as it was. Maybe when he came back this way, he could enlist Brock's help in a more thorough destruction of the place.

Mounting the ceiling again, Spider-man headed toward the exit, trusting his memory to take him back to Brock's room.  
_  
Please, please, make this easy. I already got midterms I gotta fail…_

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Eddie's feeling pretty pleased with himself. And he knows it, too. And what's even better is he can _remember_; his meal bought him some increasing awareness that grows slowly like the burn of weak alcohol, in his head instead of his stomach.

He even knows what alcohol is now. Sort of.

All he knows is that in itself is a big accomplishment. It's okay to feel proud.

He can think now, but it's a bit hazy, and he's easily distracted because as far as he is concerned, right now he wants to fuck, and fuck badly, and there's nothing to fuck with at the moment. Now that he can think, he comes to the realization that he didn't think this through, as he didn't left anything to fuck in his hurry to feed. The female was dead and so was the male by the time he'd realized the shocks weren't going to hurt him anymore: he has the vague impression they are waiting. It just means a free meal for Eddie and who's he to say no? The only problem is that now he's out of the danger zone of starvation, his body decides this new meal isn't for him, but for the leech inside, leaving Eddie to coast on one lousy brain when he could've eaten two.

Now that Eddie's capable of remembering and some higher thought, he's learned to dislike this little maggot inside. It's eating up his – their – limited resources. It's a liability he doesn't need.

Still, he's feeling pretty good if he doesn't think about the tiny _thing _inside him. Trying to remember specific memories are still a no go, but he can at least recognize that mindless state he was in before, even if occasionally he'll still lose minutes at a time. He doesn't remember finishing his first meal, or licking it away from his fangs. He does remember blinking, like waking up (only he wasn't asleep), and suddenly feeling…different. He could see things, feel things and it would start to click here and there. Like there is a sudden connection that wasn't there before.

He still wants to mate, though. It's just as much a hunger as his need to eat, but now it's at the front.

Eddie isn't sure how long he sits there, gazing out into the darkness, eyes blinking lazily. Enough for the bodies jammed under the bed to grow cold. Boring. The blood on the floor is still wet. Eddie is scratching at the dried blood on his arms and watching the black flakes come sprinkling off when he senses the third life heading right for him.

There is suddenly an overabundance of prey tonight.

Only this prey doesn't walk on two legs like the others do.

It's enough to give Eddie pause. This one comes sneaking in, moving more like he would than the others. This one is crawling along the ceiling just like Eddie can and while the other has that tantalizing, tasty pulse of life that Eddie can sense meters away, he is not food. Or, rather, he _is _food, but he is also Spider. Eddie isn't much for planning yet, but he is starving for a taste of flesh in both senses and knows he can't both mate and eat at the same time. Physically it just doesn't work out.

Parker is working at opening the door as Eddie tries to decide what to do. For some reason he thinks he doesn't want to kill Parker, which doesn't make sense: food is meant to be killed and eaten. It's only natural. This thought bothers him because it feels like it's someone else that's_ not-him_ thinking it, unnecessarily complicated and invasive on his territory. But his body wants to mate too; he is already erect in the too-cold air, his muscles quivering as he tracks the Spider's progress at the door. With his newfound, growing self-awareness, coming back like riding a bike (whatever that is), Eddie decides that no, he isn't going to try to feed on Parker just because that's what his first instinct demands.

He's already eaten, and while he isn't against more food, he doesn't absolutely need it.

What he does need is to get Parker under him. Now. Make him _his_. Eddie feels his heart racing at the thought, faster than he's ever felt it go before, and knows that he can't wait any longer. This is it.

The door opens. The Spider carefully crawls in along the ceiling, looking down at him, and falls for the sleeping-act. It's too dark to for him to see the bloodstain on the floor with the lights out, much less the fact there's two corpses stashed under the bed.

"Eddie, wake up! I'm getting you outta here, so come on."

Eddie lies motionless, pretends he's sleeping a little longer, waiting for Parker to come deeper and deeper into the cell. He doesn't have to have his eyes all the way open to know what the other male looks like. The Spider is a credit to both their species. Parker is smaller, but he has plenty of hard, lean muscle that Eddie feels he would like nothing more than to posses, to touch, to taste, and claim every inch in any way he can. He is strong, intelligent, young, and resilient, and so is the perfect candidate for fulfilling the now burning drive for sex, for unity. It was a good thing he already ate before their mate showed up.

The Spider comes stupidly closer. "I know you're got problems with me, but this's greater than just the two of us."

Parker is right over him. Eddie bursts into action, his second black skin enveloping him. _Us_. There is an us now. It's not just the leech, but something else. An old friend, maybe, starting to come back. Whatever it is, Eddie accepts it without question and lunges at Parker before he can react, wrapping his arms around him and dragging the Spider down.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Spider-man hit the floor with a thud. He reacted without thinking, kicking out at Brock's shadow; there was an impact that sent rattles right through his leg, but no give, like he'd kicked a stone wall instead of flesh and bone. A normal person would've dropped him, but the arms around him only drew him closer. The superhero squirmed in the bear hug around his stomach, grunting. If he didn't know better, Brock was trying to squeeze the life out of him, although he was oddly silent.

He struggled against Brock's arms and lashed out with a fist. Something wet and thick curled around his wrist. The vice around his stomach tightened. Spider-man gasped for air, reflexively extended an arm and blindly shot forth a healthy dosing of webbing with his free hand; he was rewarded with a snarl – in Brock's voice, but with double tones – and then finally dropped to the floor, leaving him coughing for air and trying to back toward the door. His heel slipped on something wet. He stumbled backward. The next thing Spider-man knew, something bigger than he was,_ huge_, body-slammed him up against the glass, like a truck barreling out of nowhere without any headlights. He hit it with a resounding _crack _that echoed in his skull.

Somehow it held.

He still couldn't see in the darkness very well, not with the stars bursting before his eyes, and the pain reverberating in his head and his body. Spider-man ducked the next charge – just barely – and pivotted around Brock (Venom?), swinging as hard as he could with his hands linked together. This time he actually hit.

_Crunch._

For a second, Spider-man worried that he hit too hard, that he might have killed Brock. He'd never hit anyone that hard before, never really tried to put his entire muscle in a punch.

The hiss from the darkness put that to rest. There was faint light from outside, but it was still almost impossible to see. He could just barely make out Venom's black shape as he jerked his chest and then his head out from the new hole in the heavily reinforced glass, thick chunks of it tinkling off as he shook himself. To make matters worse, Venom didn't even seem to notice he'd taken a hit, instead turning toward him, his blank, white eyes focused on Spider-man and glowing faintly in the dark.

"I'm not here to fight you!" Spider-man said, balling his fists up. His chest and ribs were already aching. The bruises he'd get tomorrow were going to be spectacular, no thanks to Venom. "So cut it out already!

Venom gave a weird kind of twitch, sniffing the air, jaws working. Spider-man paused. For the first time since he'd crawled into the cell, he took a good, long whiff and froze. Blood. Lots of it. He'd been so set on getting Brock that he hadn't noticed. Whose blood? Brock's? Judging by the way Venom was acting, he was fine – better than fine, even, considering how crappy he'd looked before. Spider-man was starting to get a bad feeling (a bit late). Was this a trap?

He darted off to the side, only to find that the way he'd come in was blocked off with a healthy dose of black, glistening webbing. Spider-man spun around and came face to face with Venom; or would have, if Venom wasn't ridiculously huge up close and towering over him.

"_Mine_," Venom hissed. "Spider…"

The next thing Spider-man knew, he was pinned up against the webbing, head spinning. He caught a glimpse of teeth and tried to do something, anything, before he sunk those fangs into him. Spider-man certainly wasn't expecting what happened next: he was faintly aware of cold air touching his face – the mask had been pushed up over his nose – and then _human _lips crushing against his with bruising force, burning hot to the touch. Feverish.

Somehow in all the worst case scenarios he'd run through his head, getting _kissed _by his own personal stalker wasn't one of them. For a second, Spider-man was convinced Venom missed somehow or messed up, but as he struggled to turn his head away, and realized that it was Brock pressed up against him and not Venom, he had to admit that this didn't seem like some colossal screw up.

Spider-man gasped for air as Brock broke the kiss (there was no mistaking it was that now), panting, and thoroughly stunned.

What the hell was going on?

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Eddie's already drunk from that first kiss. It feels so good that he goes in immediately for seconds, and it doesn't matter if Parker doesn't return it, because this is how it's supposed to be. Or rather, he can't hold it in any more, wait any longer, before he has to act on instinct and mate with Parker_ right now_, get rid of this irritating leech inside, and then enjoy their precious Spider at a more leisurely pace. It gives him little shivers of pleasure just thinking about it.

Cupping Parker's chin in his claws, Eddie dives in for thirds. Parker's resistant, trying to squirm away, but that is to be expected. Eddie exhales, and forces the other male's lips to part, slipping his tongue inside to taste him. Reaching down with his free hand, Eddie slides his claws down the ribbed, webbed lines of the boy's uniform, moving down his chest to his waist, and resting for a moment on his hips, quivering at the touch.

Predictably, Parker bites down on his tongue, but Eddie doesn't even notice; it's just a tingle, not even this side of irritating, and it is little signs of naïve defiance like that which make him so desirable. Endearing. It's good Parker will taste his blood at this stage. Only fitting. Besides, the injury from the bite is already healing, leaving the only sign it ever happened the traces of still warm blood on his and Parker's chins.

Eddie pulls away after a long moment with a satisfied, throaty sigh, licking the blood away.

It's enough to give Parker time to talk and talk he does:

"What's _wrong _with you!" Parker demands, out of breath, and trying to spit the taste of Eddie's blood from his mouth. "I don't know what happened to you, but – "

Eddie hisses and claps a hand over Parker's mouth, leaving whatever the boy has to say muffed and unintelligible. He's already feeling much better mentally, but that doesn't mean he needs to hear Parker's running commentary on what should be a glorious experience for the both of them. Eddie can see perfectly fine in the dark even if their mate-to-be cannot. And what he sees just makes him yearn even more, aching in the pit of his stomach and between his legs. Parker's motor mouth can ruin the moment _later_.

The young Spider is trapped against the black webbing. Eddie has already taken the opportunity to bind his hands above his head with more webbing, which has had the unintended effect of arching his body oh so temptingly toward him. It's almost too much to bear, but a part of Eddie – the human part that's starting to come back – has the novel, alien idea of _relishing it while it lasts_. Prolonging the inevitable just to stretch it out, rather than get down to business right now.

The idea of foreplay is downright bizarre, going against millennia of instincts.

But it's something new and Parker deserves something new.

Drawing close to Parker, Eddie nuzzles against his neck, breathing in his very specific scent. It's something that's invisible to prey, to _humans_, but Eddie can smell it just fine, like the most attractive color in the universe translated to a single, heady scent which one can't ever get enough of. Nibbling lovingly at Parker's skin, he brushes fangs across it, teasing his tongue across and nipping at Parker's exposed jaw. The meal from earlier leaves Eddie with a pleasurable warm glow in his stomach and head – they're starting to remember how to communicate verbally to prey, but they don't need to speak to mate. Speaking during mating is a human habit, at any rate.

And yet Eddie can't help himself. It's all starting to come back through the need, how to appear more than just a beast.

"Can't help it, can we? Just nature running its course," he purrs into Parker's neck, pressing close to grind his hips against the other male's. "Got life inside us to purge with your help, Spider."

Parker tries to twist away from the hand covering his mouth. "You're _sick_, Eddie!" he pants. "Let me go. I want to help you!"

"We _were _sick, we know that now. But now we're good and fed and all better." Eddie responds by sliding a hand down Parker's back – oh, how he flinches at that! – and uses his claws to cut some of the cloth that is in the way, leaving the red and blue outfit in tatters. He lays a hand against his smooth skin, moving down his lower back to cup the curves of his ass. Eddie is of the opinion that Parker talks too damn much with all his _morals _and _ethics_. The claws retreat, leaving Eddie's fingers covered with a silky, liquid black covering.

Parker doesn't know what's going on, but he stiffens, starting to get an inkling. He's not that clueless.

"Eddie, you don't know what you're doing, you've got to stop!" It all comes out in a rush. There's no jokes or glib remarks. Just pure, strong (but understandably nervous) Spider, always picking the losing battles because he's a sucker for that kind of thing. "You can fight this!"

Wrong thing to say.

Eddie just laughs in his two voices.

Up till now he has been gently stroking the bare skin cupped in his claws. Now he pushes one finger in, catching Parker's pained gasp with another kiss, and feeling both his selves singing without words. There's thousands of years of instinct behind this, countless symbiotes and their hosts' memories behind this, and for once Eddie feels entirely at ease with himself and his Other. He finds himself wishing he could make Parker feel the same, feel this glorious unity, and pushes in deeper with his slicked fingers. This is really only to open up Parker for what comes later, but Eddie doesn't want him to feel more pain then he has to.

No, the Spider is precious. Eddie's straining to _fuck him hard and fas_t – more human terms that've come back – but no, he deserves better than that, and Eddie is determined to go nice and slow…it hurts, but it could be so, so much worse. For starters, Parker could end up maimed for life. Or dead. And that's just not acceptable.

Parker is trying to twist away from Eddie's relentless probing, but it only serves to push his body up against Eddie's. Eddie's aware of whispering to the boy bumping against him, but it's a mix of human and symbiote tongues, blending into a humming purr that Parker can't possibly understand. Eddie doesn't need to see his face to know what he's feeling: the emotion of mounting confusion, pain, and pleasure are thick in the air, especially to his senses, and heavy on their tongue. He can't help sinking his claws into Parker a few times, flexing his free hand against the boy's back unconsciously, but the wounds could be worse and besides, Parker already made _him _bleed.

The Spider is so distracted that he doesn't immediately notice Eddie sinking down onto his knees. Intercourse to a symbiote usually means just throwing down your mate and getting right down to business, but Eddie - as far gone as he is - still remembers a little before his Other and has a vague idea of trying to do a bit better than that. Peeling away the tatters of the Spider's outfit, Eddie uses his free hand to cradle his mate's length, leaning down to give it a generous lick.

Parker shudders at the contact, panting and looking down, wide-eyed.

"W-what are you doing?"

Eddie only flashes Parker a devilish grin. It's pretty obvious, but that's right: Parker's still a virgin, according to their genetic memory. The best he's ever seen is the porno Gwen snuck him…and he still hasn't gone that extra step because he wants to wait until he's older.

That'll be changing today, and Parker can have the distinction of being the _second _human on this backward planet to ever fuck a symbiote.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

The worst part was that he couldn't really see Brock very well. Being only able to feel touches out of nowhere, and hearing Brock's disembodied voice made what happening even more unreal.

Peter had a pretty good idea where this was going by now. But no matter how much he struggled, he couldn't get away from Brock, what – what he was doing to him _there _and _there_. It felt weird, uncomfortable, like nothing he'd ever felt before. And yet - the part of Peter that _wasn't_preoccupied with escape or trying to punch some sense into Brock (either or at this point) had time to think - it also kind of felt…good. He could feel Brock impossibly _inside _him with his fingers from behind, settling into a rhythm that somehow changed from really, really uncomfortable to something as weirdly hypnotic as Brock's whispering. It was like he couldn't help himself: his body was starting to think what was going on wasn't such a bad idea after all, even as his brain kept trying to put on the brakes only to find they'd been suddenly cut.

He had no idea what was wrong with Brock . Peter knew he was sick, Smythe and his pack of scientists even said so, but this was bad. It was almost like he was in some kind of trance, going on automatic instead of manual, and not even caring they were _still in Fisk Tower_.

Peter moaned despite himself as Brock licked him again, running what had to be his tongue over his sensitive skin. It was a lot different then when you got bored in the bathroom with Gwen's porno magazine (she kept "accidentally" leaving it lying around the house for him). Between the attention Brock was giving to front and back, Peter was torn between trying to push backward or squirm forward, and unable to choose.

For the first couple of minutes – it was hard to tell time – Peter had only thought of escape. By the time Brock cut him down from the web, Peter could only pant for breath, cheek pressed against the floor, heart racing a million miles a minute. His cheeks felt flushed against the cold tiles. Whatever thoughts he had seemed to swirl about without connecting…

And there was Brock's voice, so close now, his breath tickling against his ear.

Peter tensed as he was rolled over, and a weight settled carefully on him, straddling him in the darkness. He was too flustered to be embarrassed over the fact he was pretty much naked at this point, trying to catch his breath in the cold, recycled air. It hurt to have his back pressed up against the floor too, what with Brock's perverted "love taps" (more like stabbing-you-in-the-back-with-his-stupid-_claws _taps) still bleeding. It was hard to concentrate. His mind went completely blank. The only thing that seemed solid was feeling of Brock's mouth brushing up against his neck and the thundering of his pulse in his head.

It was probably only a minute that he lay there, stunned, and panting.

He jerked reflexively as he felt Brock's lips on his. He could feel the actual points of his fangs.

Unable to free his arms, Peter responded with a head-butt.

_Crack. _Contact and he saw white stars winking in the darkness.

Brock snarled – he didn't even sound _mad _– and returned the favor with a good slug of his own, slamming Peter hard back against the floor. Peter tasted blood, one side of his mouth numb. Split lip. And Brock was back, he could feel him in the dark, those fangs tickling his mouth as Brock slid his tongue between his parted lips. Peter tasted blood again, some of it his. Some of it tasted…different, didn't taste like blood was supposed to. He realized with disgust that it was B rock's, smeared across his chin and mouth and probably getting symbiote-cooties all over him.

Which was probably closer to the truth than was comfortable. It explained, for seemingly no reason, how he could suddenly see Brock instead of pitch black, a kind of grainy view of the world that was more of washed out gray, just this side of being blind.

But he could see Brock now. What he saw made him stiffen.

Brock was only half covered in that oily black "skin" of the symbiote. His eyes were glazed over, filmed over with a milky white that seemed to glow slightly in the dark. As Brock pulled back, licking his lips, Peter could see his fangs glistening with their mixed blood. But the worst of it was the fact that Brock seemed to be surrounded by some kind of twitching, writhing mass of tentacles, strings of the symbiote collapsing in on itself only to form liquid streamers elsewhere. The whole cell was covered in a pulsing, living web of it.

Peter made the mistake of looking down, his eyes traveling from the oily web to Brock's face and down past the half-formed white widow on his chest. The teenager recoiled as he realized that something was actually _in_ Brock, his hips rolling languidly with the motion as one of the black tentacles pumped up between his legs. There was no mistaking what it was doing to the man over him. Nausea welled up in Peter. For a second he seriously considered getting sick right then and there. It wasn't helping that Brock would give this shiver every now and then, his lips parted as he grunted under hitched breaths, his bare skin slick with sweat.

Something brushed up against his own leg.

Peter jerked back.

. Looking down, he was horrified to find that another tentacle from the symbiote slithering its way up his knee. Considering what the other one was doing to Brock, he really, really didn't want another one anywhere near him. Trying to awkwardly scoot back didn't get him very far. Not when he scooted back right into the glass wall behind him and there was nowhere else to go. Brock didn't even bother trying to hold him still – the blond was leaning up against the glass, both clawed hands flat against it on either side of Peter's shoulders, his face close to his, eyes still unfocused.

And that was when the tentacle touched him right where it shouldn't.

Peter stiffened. He couldn't help crying out when it pushed its way in. It hurt in a way that he couldn't even imagine. For a second he blanked out, two whole seconds of relief before he was back and it was _still _inside him, and no matter how much he tried to struggle, he couldn't get away. Gasping in pain, he felt it starting to do the same thing to him as it was doing to Brock, pushing its way in only to slide a little out. Only it'd come back and it'd start all over again, over and over. His watering eyes opened again as he was pushed into the glass again, and realized that Brock was not only still over him, but he was actually mirroring him now. His hips moved exactly when Peter's did.

Gritting his teeth, Peter tried to ride this through.

He knew exactly what was happening even if Brock wasn't physically touching him in that way. And while it was hard to think, he latched onto the one thing he knew he was going to do: if they got out of this alive, before Smythe's cronies found them like this, he was going to kick Brock's butt across Manhattan.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

The Spider's looking up at them.

It hurts, yes, Eddie knows that, but they really are trying to be gentle. Leaning up with his claws on the walls, Eddie moves in unison with their mate, slowly speeding up. It's a struggle to keep this calm. Eddie can feel himself shaking from the effort it takes not to just tear into himself and the Spider under them. The first stage of mating is always like this, no matter the species. Usually a lot more violent, but always, always together as one, the only time that they aren't vying for total control. Of the mate and of the Host.

Parker's panting under them, his breathing shallow and ragged. Eddie matches him breath for breath.

There is no word for how good this feels. There's some pain, as usual, but there's something so much more, so much more fulfilling.

Aware of everything. There's that too. Eddie can feel parts of him everywhere in the cell, black tendrils spreading out and pulsing with life. It's all over, it's forming and reforming over him – occasionally sprouting fangs – and it's inside him and the Spider.

The little leech inside them is still there. It's coming closer to being bled out of them, but they aren't there yet.

But they are, however, on their way. They can sense the Spider giving out for the first time tonight. He gives another grunt, a little strangled, and his back arches up, his chest pressing against Eddie's. He even gets a few seconds of rest, which is a lot more than their past mates ever got. Yet another memory that's coming back. Eddie's still going. He can't stop. Not until the offspring is gone. There's another memory coming now, just an impression of pure frustration and rage from another time long ago. The mating had failed because something had been wrong with the leech; they'd gone through countless mates trying to get rid of the thing.

It can't be like that this time. Not with Parker.

He has to be careful. No, _they _have to be careful. This not-him, this symbiote, that is also here with him.

Reaching down, feeling a full row of fangs forming on his face as the symbiote covers him once again, Eddie reaches down and hauls Parker to his feet. The Spider sags against him, his legs almost giving out under him as he sways unsteadily.

"W-why are you…you doing this?" he manages to get out. He flinches away as Venom leers at him, a long tongue snaking out between his fangs, the unblinking white eyes fixed on him.

Parker will find out in due time. Once the worst is over, maybe he can experience this as they do. Unlike the raw meat they'd gone through before last mating, they would rather be able to enjoy him at their leisure. Hissing between his fangs, Venom even cuts away the webbing binding Parker's hands. See, they_can _be generous. Not that it'll do any good for Parker. They're not particularly surprised when Parker suddenly whips around and tries to take their head off with a sweeping kick. Of course he'd be saving his energy even when past mates had given up by this point. He wouldn't expect any less. Still, Parker's fast, even for them. He's a blur of motion and they don't even see the kick until it's _close_.

They catch it with one claw. The other shoots out and grabs the Spider by the throat. It's tempting to squeeze the fight out of him, but they don't, instead keeping him at arm's length so he can't get in any other shots.

"We need it out of us," Venom snarls. "We need your help, Spider. You need to get it out of us, this little maggot eating us up alive. We need it out of us so _badly_."

Parker squirms. He might be a danger if he was free, but he can't get any leverage right now. He doesn't say anything, just glares at them.

"Nothing else matters."

They let go of the Spider. Naturally he makes a break for the door, but they cut him off before he can make it. They, too, are fast despite their size. Venom blindsides Parker, slamming him into the reinforced glass wall. That does take the fire out of their mate for the time being – he staggers back against the cracked glass, leaving a smear of blood from his injured back, and starts to slump down. But they're there and Venom supports Parker before he can collapse. He's stunned, not too hurt; if he was anyone else, if he'd been normal, he would've probably been dead from that. Lucky him.

The need is deafening. They turn the Spider around, using the glass wall to help him stand as they grip his hips with their claws and angle him properly. Their mate makes a dazed moan of protest as they sink the points in slightly, but he's not going anywhere.

Venom takes a moment to brace himself before he pushes in.

It's going to be a long night.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Peter didn't remember much after getting hit.

What he did remember was just a few flashes. Cold glass against his arm. Points of pain on his side. After that, just a blur of grays, pain and sometimes pleasure.

He'd no idea how long he'd been out. It could've been a few minutes. Or it could have been hours.

The next thing he remembered was a feeling of heaviness in his arms. Trying to raise them, he found he couldn't. Trying to swim free of the fog in his head, Peter realized that he was moving – sort've. Something was pushing at him….into him. Something was inside him again. It felt like it was filling him and he couldn't breathe. It took another dazed and confused moment to realize that something was in his mouth, hot, thick and wet. What –? His eyes fluttered open.

Venom pushed into him from both ends, his jaws parted open, the fangs gleaming as his tongue lolled out between the fangs. That thing in Peter's mouth? It was his _tongue_.

As he began to regain consciousness, he tried to will his body to actually do what he wanted it to. It seemed content to do just the opposite: his arms remained limp and unresponsive at his sides, and he was moving once again in unison with Venom, feeling a stranger in his own body. He coughed as Venom withdrew the tongue, his claws against him tensing and flexing as he continued to pump into him. Heavy. Everything was still heavy, stretching out into eternity. All those other fights he'd had? He'd never felt as utterly drained as he did now, the exhaustion pressing down on him.

There was a point where he really did lose track of time. Venom never seemed satisfied, pushing into him over and over again, as if trying waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. Not yet, anyway. Peter, his flushed cheek resting up against Venom's chest, somehow had a feeling of something building. Whatever it was, it was actually draining Venom now. The pushes inside were less powerful, but he still wasn't prepared for when Venom suddenly dropped to his knees, unable to hold their joined weight. The two of them spilled onto the floor, Venom pulling out of him and leaving him lying on his side, gasping for breath and trying to move. He could only watch as the symbiote on Brock suddenly went _psycho_.

The worst part of it was he couldn't cover his ears. The symbiote shrieked, a shrill, piercing sound that he could swear was rattling the glass walls. One of them - already damaged - shattered, showering the two of them with glass shards and powder. Brock was on his hands and knees, strands of the symbiote still covering him, face a mask of pure pain. Hunching forward, Brock sobbed into his arms, going so far as to start digging his fangs into them as if trying to vent. Unlike before, the wounds weren't closing up immediately; Brock didn't even seem to notice, lost in whatever was happening to him. Around him, the symbiote was boiling, bubbling up with squishy, sickening pops.

It was still a challenge to keep conscious. Peter couldn't summon up the strength to move.

But even if he had, he would've been frozen to the spot, unable to look away.

By now, the symbiote had begun to concentrate on Brock's back, the webs of the cell quivering. It began to boil even more violently than before. When Peter began to see red staining the black, he was convinced that Brock was hurt bad.

It wasn't blood.

It dawned on him what it was. Another one of _them_. A chill ran down Peter's bare back as more and more of the red began to bubble up to the surface, collecting in a larger and larger mass. Brock by now looked like he was barely holding it together; his face was pale, the drying blood on his chin and mouth still glistening, his arms trembling with the effort. By now he looked even more burned out than Peter felt. Half-conscious as Peter was right now, he could still manage to think _he deserves it_.

Brock collapsed as the new symbiote dripped off him, forming a little, seemingly harmless puddle of red shot through with black.

And Brock was down for the count.

Considering how the cell was tilting and swirling about him, he'd probably be following suit pretty soon. Peter was starting to black out again, his vision beginning to tunnel, when a light flared on from somewhere.

The last thing he saw was someone's long shadow falling over Brock and him.

**To be continued...**  
-X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Thanks again for reading.


	11. Something Wicked

**Black Sustenance**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: Naturally I don't own Spider-man.  
**Author Notes**: Sorry about the lack of update. Here's the new chapter. Once again, this is mostly in Ultimate Spider-man universe: teenage Peter, MJ and Gwen and Peter has already told MJ his secret. Thanks for reading and thank you very much for the reviews!

for thoughts/emphasis/symbiote  
**Archive**: Sure, just ask.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X  
Black Sustenance  
X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

(Something Wicked)

Where _was_ Peter Parker?

Mary Jane Watson chewed on the end of her pen, frowning. Seriously, where was he? They were supposed to put in a cram session for the trig midterm and Peter was a still a no show at – she looked at the clock on her bed stand – almost 11PM. She'd waited since eight. Had he forgotten? She was pretty sure she'd reminded him a few days ago about this, especially since it would be just the two of them. Much as she liked Gwen, they couldn't really _talk_ talk with her here. Not about the personal stuff.

Not about Peter's personal stuff.

She stared down at her study sheet. Trig wasn't super hard, but it was hard enough and she'd feel a lot better if Peter was just here. Even if they didn't get any studying done, she'd feel a lot better if he was here procrastinating with her. Whenever she thought about his "job", she always felt that same sick feeling wash over her, the same one that always came up whenever she saw him on the news saving the day and getting sometimes pounded in the process. Sometimes (she couldn't even admit this to Peter), sometimes she wished he'd never told her the truth. Maybe she'd be a lot less understanding about his disappearances, but she wouldn't worry just because Peter wasn't here…even for something as dumb as a cram session. Maybe she wouldn't be worrying that the reason he wasn't here was because he was lying in another alley, hurt again.

Even if he couldn't make it to the cram session, he could've at least let her know what was going on.

After a few minutes of staring at a problem on the study sheet and finding out will power wasn't enough to make the question solve itself, Mary Jane sat up and reached for the phone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Fucked up. That's what it was: fucked up.

Flint Marko stood for a second before the shattered glass wall just looking on with his hands on his hips, craggy face twisted into a scowl. Brock was unconscious and ass-naked again. Spider-man wasn't in much better condition, his outfit in tatters, his breathing ragged in the dead silent of the cell. He kept his distance as Smythe's night shift assistants swarmed around him to get inside the cell. A horde of them attended to the two freaks, the others dealing with the two poor bastards Brock'd nailed earlier. Flint's nose wrinkled in disgust as they removed the bodies. Blood was everywhere. It seemed like a ridiculous amount – he didn't even know the human body could hold that much, but he did now and it was friggen all over the place in gory red splashes against the floor, the bed, even the remaining windows.

Add "cannibal" to Brock's laundry list of fuck ups.

As for the kid? Flint found it hard to look at him. It'd been too dark to see a lot of what happened. Considering Brock's off the wall horniness earlier and the fact the kid was half naked, it wasn't exactly hard to put it together. How old was the kid, sixteen? Jesus. H. Christ. So not only was Brock a cannibal, he was now a rapist and a pedophile. Flint was of half the mind to just accidentally "slip" while dealing with Brock and - oops – they'd be down a freak.

But he didn't. Instead he stood back and did nothing.

He jumped when Alistair suddenly spoke up from waist level next to him. "Just marvelous, isn't it?"

For a guy stuck in a wheelchair (or whatever it was), he had a way of sneaking up on a guy. "Not exactly my choice o' words."

Alistair was silent for a bit, watching as the assistants removed the two unconscious freaks from the wreck of the cage. Apparently it wasn't as strong as they'd figured, but Alistair didn't look at all upset, Flint realized as he snuck a sidelong glance. His expression, if anything, was one of quiet, controlled bliss as he watched the biohazard team attending to the blood-red puddle on the floor. It bubbled a few times. Flint tensed. A few times it boiled up, reaching toward one of the workers with a quivering liquid tendril, only to be jabbed back down with a stun baton. Soon it was packaged away in a secure container and hauled away, leaving the rest of the biohazard team to try to scrub the guts and blood out from the cell.

"What now?" Flint asked, following Alistair as he left the main room. It was quiet once again. "Since th' party's over."

Alistair heaved a sigh that was anything but exasperated. "The work's just beginning. Unfortunately, we're missing a lot of visual data of what went down, but we'll work around it. And until a new, improved containment cell is constructed, I would believe that Mr. Fisk would continue to need your services. I'd suggest getting something to eat before the subjects come around again."

And with that, Flint was dismissed.

Great. Like he could even eat after this. But if there was ever a time where he'd need some space to chill out and try to sort out what the hell he was thinking, it was probably now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The good thing about being the girl next door was it wasn't very far to run over.

Mary Jane had only knocked once when the door was jerked open. Disappointment crossed over May Parker's face, but she tried to cover it up by ushering Mary Jane in and closing the door behind her. Gwen was still in her pajamas, rubbing at her eyes and hovering in the hall. They followed May into the kitchen as she bustled about doing nothing in particular, as if she needed to keep moving just to keep calm.

"He wasn't in his room when I checked," Aunt May said. Her voice was tight and she was clearly holding back tears. "I wouldn't have known he was gone until tomorrow if you hadn't called."

"We saw him go up after dinner," said Gwen. "I was on the couch and I didn't see him leave."

_You wouldn't_, Mary Jane thought. "You called the police?"

She regretted asking that the next moment. Of course May would, her only nephew was missing in the middle of the night! The older woman nodded.

"They're sending someone right now. But they don't think that we should worry just yet…"

Mary Jane didn't know where Peter disappeared to. _It's not like him to vanish like this_ was her first impulse. But that wasn't entirely true, she thought, remembering the time he'd been shot as Spider-man by the cops. It'd been some of the worst couple of hours in Mary Jane's life in the ER, right up there with getting tossed off a bridge. It'd been a misunderstanding and sure, he'd had a reason to be out that late. Not one he could ever tell May or Gwen, but he'd still had a reason. As far as she could tell, there was no reason for his disappearance tonight: everyone had said that he'd just gone upstairs to go to bed. Tonight was quiet. There hadn't been anything in the news that would need Spider-man. Why would Peter sneak out, if that was what he did? What if he was hurt somewhere?

The old panic was starting to grow again. Mary Jane tried to fight it down. As the only one here who knew Peter's secret, she couldn't sit around. "Would it be okay if I checked his room?" she asked. "Maybe I can find out what happened."

May nodded, reaching up and rubbing at one eye. Gwen was comforting her as Mary Jane went upstairs. Every step felt heavy. You'd think she'd be used to this after it'd sunk in that Peter was constantly in danger every single day of his life. Only she wasn't used to it and it still hit her as hard now as it did then. But she had to look out for him in whatever way she could, even if he wasn't here now.

And that meant protecting his secret until he got back.

His room was a mess. Picking her way through it, Mary Jane searched the room, tossing aside the sheets, looking under the bed and even under the mattress. It took a few minutes to find where Peter'd left his Spidey stuff. Eventually she located the spare costume and those web fluid cartridge things of his; he'd moved his stuff since last time and when he wanted to be messy, he could be _messy_. She tried to tell herself this wasn't stealing as she tucked them into her messenger bag. She was just safeguarding this in case his room got searched by the cops. This wasn't stealing. So why did she feel like an intruder in a room that she'd been in plenty of times? The very room where Peter showed her who he really was and let her into his cool, weird, _scary_ world?

Feeling her cheeks burning red, she left the room.

_ Peter, where _are_ you?_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Eddie Brock woke up in fits.

The first thing he noticed was that he could think. _Really_ think. As in he could sit wherever he was and think about how uncomfortable it was or how his left shoulder was asleep and actually remember the thought for more than a few minutes at a time. Consciousness flickered in and out still. Every time he was nearly awake brought him new sensations, made him remember he was a thinking creature. His next thought was _where am I_ followed, amazingly enough, by the deduction that he wasn't free yet if the feel of metal around his neck was anything to go by.

His eyes fluttered open, greeting him with an up close and personal view of the floor. Biting back a pained groan, he tried to assess things. His whole body ached. It hurt all over, even in places it wasn't supposed to, and he let out a wheeze as he coughed. Dry throat. Hurt to swallow.

It was frighteningly silent in his head.

Searching around, he could still feel his Other inside him, curled up like a solid thing. But it was exhausted – they both were – leaving Eddie to his own devices. Opening his eyes was just about as fun as sticking forks into an electrical socket, light stabbing right into still hypersensitive eyes and forcing him to shut them quickly before it could bore right into his skull. His cheek was pressed up against the cold floor and already numb. Christ, he couldn't move. As far as he could tell, he hadn't been pumped up with any sedatives, or whatever new cocktail Alistair had cooked up, and that what was really messing him up was the most insane bout of pure exhaustion he'd ever faced before in his life. It clung to him inside and out, hanging in a veil over his bare back and limbs. Pins and needles assaulted his muscles, which were _still_ twitching a little in time with the tired throbs of the symbiote inside.

But he was himself again.

Eddie would've jumped up and danced if he could.

Waiting for his eyes to get used to the light, Eddie tried to recall last night. He didn't remember how long he'd been out of commission in that never-ending abyss. Just flashes. Bits and pieces here and there. There was no telling if he'd been out of it for only a day or for weeks. Months. It didn't matter. The first clear memory was meat in his mouth. The flashes of it were extremely vivid; if he'd ever needed glasses, it'd probably be like putting them on for the first time and taking a look at the world around you…and realizing that not only could you see, but that you could see everything. Every single detail, in stark, hi-definition. He could recall exactly how the meat had been coiled and surprisingly on the bland side. The liquid gushing down his chin. The fact that everything was still warm.

He'd killed two people.

He'd jumped on them, mauled them and ripped open their skulls.

Then he'd helped himself to what was inside. Kid in the candy store.

Eddie thought about that. Maybe he was just too tired to get up in arms about it, but he couldn't feel anything about it one way or another. No horror. Just a sense that feeding on those people had been fulfilling. It was the first time he could remember it, anyway. Maybe it'd hit him once he recovered more. Was he in shock? Maybe later he'd feel that wave of disgust and shame that just wouldn't seem to come right now, and, in fact, didn't seem to be coming any time soon. All he could feel was a sense of personal satisfaction and the thought that the people he'd killed were collaborators. They worked for Alistair Smythe. Therefore? They were fair game and while he wasn't to sure how he felt on the whole cannibalism development, the actual act of killing was more or less justified in his mind.

The next thing was the Spider.

Whatever haze they suffered through before feeding, it'd been gone when Peter Parker showed up. Eddie remembered every moment, every second, of the encounter. If he thought those flashes of the feeding were detailed, his time with the Spider had been in overload – it was like he'd had total recall dropped right into his lap at that moment, and he could look back on what happened with the kid and not miss a thing. His memory of that? Completely off the charts, way, way beyond what was normal for a human – or even for a symbiote. He supposed getting a Brain-Pick-Me-Up right before put them into some kind of batshit overdrive. His temporary bout of eidetic memory told him Parker hadn't exactly joined with them willingly.

But Eddie had a feeling this was how things would've ended up anyway. Not the whole getting captured by a cripple, but the whole relationship – or lack of – they had with the Spider. They needed him and he didn't want anything to do with them, either with Eddie or his Other. And since they couldn't have things by playing nice, then that just simply meant they played it not so nice since "no" wasn't good enough. They wanted Peter Parker. They took him last night by force. He didn't have a say in the matter. Or a chance.

Eddie did feel a little bit bad about that. Not a lot. But enough.

He didn't like it.

But he _did_ like feeling normal. For the first time in forever, he didn't feel at all horny. Aside from being more tired than a guy had any right feeling, and aside from being still locked up, he felt…good. Not great. They were still in trouble, after all. But good, all things considered. Just shy of being perky, but Eddie guessed that was probably asking too much and they'd exhausted themselves too much last night to be bouncing around the morning after.

After a while, he began the struggle to sit up. When you had your arms locked behind your back, it was a lot harder than it looked, and it took a few minutes of false starts and bad planning before he managed to get upright, leaning back against a smooth wall. Head spun a little. He looked around.

This wasn't the same cell. _Of course it's not_, Eddie thought, _because between you and Parker, you pretty much trashed it._ He wished he'd had the foresight to escape and _then_ fuck the Spider's brains out.

The new cell was pretty damned small, little more than a tall tube of reinforced glass that'd probably send a claustrophobic screaming up the walls; as it was, he probably couldn't stretch out full length if he wanted and it was definitely a step backward from their previous accommodations. The fact he could actually look outside the cell was new. Eddie righted himself before he slipped onto his side, and took a good look around. A row of the same glass cylinder-prisons, only three of which were occupied – Parker was in the next one over, still out cold and still wearing the tatters of his Spider-man outfit, and, as for their third roomie, she was just as ass-naked as he was. Unlike Parker the next tube over, she was conscious.

At least, Eddie thought she was a she. When she glanced over, bored, he realized that he couldn't tell. The fact that she was sitting with her knees up to her chest certainly wasn't helping. Neither was the fact that her (its?) fiery red hair was cropped brutally short and clumping together in spikes.

"So what're you in for, newb?" the woman/man asked, words muffled by the glass. Hell, even her voice was androgynous, Eddie realized, and decided that for the sake of his sanity, he was just going to think of "it" as a woman for the time being. She cracked an unpleasant grin, "Serial killer, myself."

Eddie stared at her. Was she joking? Not that he had a clean rap sheet, but he usually didn't bother bragging about shit like that unless it was to someone who mattered, like Parker. "What?"

"Too much, eh? Okay, well, I _guess_ I can admit I keyed up my neighbor's car. Also punched out a cop. Anger issues, y'know," she smirked. "They're a bitch. But lemme tell you, it was totally worth it to deck the pig; best two seconds of my life."

Eddie had no idea what she was going on about. Why would you even punch out a cop unless there was a good reason to? From the way she was talking, it was almost like she did it for kicks. He was still trying to decide if she was bullshitting him with the serial killer bit when the redhead changed tactics. She scooted closer to him.

"Hey, what's your name?"

"…Eddie."

"I'm Kasady," said the redhead. She beamed. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"You didn't answer my question. What're you in for?"

"I don't know," Eddie lied. He wasn't going to go spilling out his life story to some whacked out bitch.

Kasady rolled her eyes, making it obvious she didn't buy that for a second. "I already told you what I'm in for," she said with a slight whine. "I bet it's 'cause you're a freak like me. Hey, how about I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

With that, she leaped to her feet, bouncing up on the balls of her heels like some demented jack in the box. Eddie braced himself for a full frontal…only to realize that he had no idea what the hell he was looking at. One minute Kasady was just a blank slate. Then she went to a full-blown woman, complete with the nicest rack he'd ever seen. Then to a man. Then back to – to whatever the hell she'd been before her little magic show. She stood with her legs spread, hands on her hips, grinning like she had her cake and ate it too. Frankly, Eddie was weirded out. Okay so she was a mutant (maybe) and he got that. But honestly? What the hell kind of useless lameass power was that?

"Yeah, yeah, it's not that cool," Kasady went on, rambling over any praise she might be expecting. "But what can you do? At least I'm not a lame normal: I like to think of myself as _unique_, if we're gonna get into semantics."

Eddie snuck a glance at Parker. The kid was still unconscious and therefore in no position to distract him from Kasady. Goddamit.

"What do they want with us, Kasady?"

Better to play dumb for now.

Kasady seemed more than happy to have someone to talk to. "I know what _I'm_ in for."

"Serial killer and all that," Brock cut in dryly. "Okay."

"Anyway, I'm last one standing, I guess," Kasady said, with no small amount of pride. "My pal Alistair, he's been wanting auditions for – oh, I dunno – _something_. And last time I've checked, I'm the best candidate from all the other mutants for Whatever It Is. Not that I know. But he gave me a sweet deal I couldn't refuse."

"Your idea of a sweet deal is living in a giant test tube?"

Kasady gave an "eh, what can you do" kind of shrug as she sat back down again, stretching her legs out like a cat for a bit. "Ain't bothering me, Pops. Just chilling out for a bit. Anyone tell you you're anti-social?"

Eddie's arms were still bound behind his back, but he could feel his hands twitching with the sudden impulse to go for the redhead's neck. Too bad they had several inches of glass in the way. And the damn collar. He noticed with no small amount of annoyance that Kasady didn't have one. Lucky bitch. Too bad she was full of shit.

Kasady tried to strike up a conversation a few more times since then, but Eddie ignored her, closing his eyes and resting against the wall. He'd been toying with the idea of trying to talk to Parker whenever he decided nap time was over…but now he wasn't so sure, not with an audience present, much less someone he wasn't sure if she was even a prisoner or not in the first place. Besides, what was he going to say to Parker? _Sorry, but _great_ fuck_ didn't seem like it'd fly very well. It wasn't like he had anything to be sorry for anyway, Eddie thought, probably a tad defensively, glancing over at the unconscious kid the next tube over. If it wasn't for him, they wouldn't be here – in all senses of the word.

Eddie guessed he'd been awake at least a few hours now when light spilled into the room from an open door. Next to him, Kasady perked up; she was a petite…okay, Eddie wouldn't go so far to call her a _woman_, but she was a petite whatever-she-was, and was able to actually lie down in the tube. Currently she was lying on her stomach, legs kicking in the air, chin propped up in her hands.

"Aw," Kasady pouted. "It's you."

Eddie watched as Flint Marko entered. He noted with a scowl that the other man's eyes went first for Parker, taking his still form in with something that almost could be mistaken for concern before glancing at the other two captives.

Kasady was still talking as Flint wandered over to some kind of console and checked it: "Can't we get anything to read here, man? It's really boring."

"Why do you keep askin' that? The answer's always gonna be no."

"But I'm _bored_."

"Too fuckin' bad."

Flint finished with whatever he was doing with the console and turned to them. He shot a glare at Eddie, his lip curling in disgust; Eddie had to resist the temptation to just snarl back at him, feeling the points of his fangs already starting to form on their own.

"You two freaks belong with each other," Flint said.

Kasady sat up suddenly. Flint didn't even flinch when she sat up a full woman this time and flashed him. "The guy's a fag," she said, reaching up and cupping her breasts, giving them a little bounce to show them off. "Come on, look at these things. You'd have to be a homo not to want some of this."

"Tell me about it," Flint muttered under his breath, unable to help glancing from Eddie to the unconscious Spider-man the next tube over.

Eddie didn't rise to the bait. He watched with narrowed eyes as Flint stopped in front of Parker's tube and toggled something; with a hiss, it pulled into the ceiling, giving the other man enough space to duck under and kneel at the kid's side. Eddie could feel Kasady trying to peer around him and he took a kind of petty pleasure out of blocking her with his back as he watched. Kasady was once again pouting, trying to tell him _move goddamit,_ but he remained right where he was, feeling like he'd like nothing more than to bust right through his new cage and gut Flint. Too bad he didn't think he had the juice in him yet.

Flint checked to make sure Parker was more or less healthy, checking his pulse and his breathing. Once done, he stepped out and closed the tube. Ignoring Kasady's endless stream of questions, he shut down the lights and left the room, the door giving a final _chunk_ of the bolt locking.

"I'd totally do him," Kasady announced with a dreamy sigh, crossing her arms over her chest, which was once again Ken-doll flat. "Like you wouldn't believe."

Eddie almost choked. "You're kidding, right?" With his cellmate, it was hard to tell.

And she certainly wasn't helping his confusion as she smirked, making an obscene gesture to show what she'd love to do with Flint: "Admit it, he looks fun. Okay, probably not the _brightest_ bulb, but I wouldn't say his mind's what I'm interested in anyway. If it's fun, then why the hell not, my grandma always said. She's dead by the way in case you wanted to know."

He hadn't even asked.

"Who's your friend?" Kasady tried again to look around him. "Nice outfit. Real classy."

"Spider-man's not my friend."

"Who's Spider-man?"

Eddie laughed in her face this time.

"Screw you, I'm not kidding - "

"- what rock have you been under – "

" – not my fault I've been here since _forever_ – "

" – that you don't even know who Spider-man is?" Eddie finished. "You know, the 'Friendly Neighborhood Spider-man'?" he said mockingly. "He's a superhero. Guy dresses up a like a spider, runs around saving people and patting himself on the back for it?"

Kasady frowned. "So he's a buzz-kill, that what you're saying?"

"Pretty much."

"Lame," Kasady sighed. She threw herself back down on the floor, lounging out. "He's got 'fuck me' written all over. He yours?"

Eddie did sputter this time.

Kasady heaved another sigh. "Dammit, why do I always get cockblocked? You people take all the fun outta this."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Kasady was a pain in the ass: she wouldn't shut up, she kept doing that sex-switching thing because she could _never_ decide which one to just stick with, and she kept trying to pry for more information, both about him, Spider-man, and was it even possible for Alistair to get it up if he was a cripple? Her vote was on _no_ but you couldn't blame someone for trying. E for Effort.

The only good thing she had going for her was when she finally turned in for the night, she was down and out like a light. There was something to be said about heavy sleepers. At least she could manage _that_ right.

Eddie kept an eye on Parker over the next couple of hours. He'd begun to drift off himself, more out of boredom than anything else, when the kid started to revive. The blond sat up straighter and watched silently as Parker stirred. While Eddie was sure that he wasn't going to jump him any time soon, he still found him insanely fascinating – that didn't look like it was going to change any time soon. The tatters of his Spider-man outfit only served to better show the outline of his muscles and the lines of his body, toned in a way similar to an acrobat or a swimmer. Although his skin was still pale, color was already beginning to return, courtesy of his accelerated healing. Knowing the fact they were probably being watched, Eddie was sure that Alistair was having a little circle-jerk session over _that_.

He could watch Parker all day. Every little thing about him was just worth it.

He was so very lucky to be alive.

Eddie supposed that Parker wouldn't see it that way. Hell, he should be thankful to them – they'd taken it a lot easier than was normal, after all. And they hadn't fed on him either, he thought, well aware he was starting to sulk. Maybe if Parker had been willing to unite with them earlier, they wouldn't even be in this mess. But no, they knew perfectly well how he thought: he thought of them as a mess, as _his_ mess, and that they were nothing more but something to be dealt with. Truth was, he had "dealt" with them. Maybe not in the ways he'd thought, but Eddie felt a lot more clear-headed than he had in weeks, if not months. They would always want Parker.

But they were now free of that leech, all thanks to their mate.

Not that he'd been a willing mate. But they usually never were.

Right now he watched as Parker's eyes fluttered open, dazed and lost in the sharp white light illuminating each of their cells from the top. Blinked. Winced. Groaned and shut them again, much like he had.

The symbiote by now was just starting to come around itself. He'd caught fragments of its "voice", flashes of impulses, memories, sensations. What it told him now was basically its own version of a groan:

_ …escape…rest…Spider…_

Eddie hated it, this feeling of being alone in his head. Hopefully a few more hours would fix that, but that was still too damn long. Parker would probably be pleased: he'd think they were "cured", that maybe Eddie would be Eddie again and everything would suddenly be right in the world just because it returned to the status quo. It was a mentality that, despite Parker's super-human abilities, marked him as immature. In the end, he was still just a child who happened to be able to kick the crap out of just about ninety percent of the human population and come out smelling like roses.

"Hey, wake up," he growled, thumping his knee against the glass wall. "Wake up."

Parker tried again. "Wha – " was all he managed before he choked it back, like he was going to be violently sick. Eddie almost hoped he would, just to ground some salt in the wound. Parker managed to swallow it down, words thick as he mumbled: "What's going on?"

He looked up, stared at Eddie for a second, and then it sank in, much like a hammer to the back of the head probably would. Parker was up on his feet in a flash, swayed, and glared daggers at Eddie. Whatever discomfort or pain he was feeling from the aftermath of their mating seemed to be forgotten for the moment as he strained against the cuffs binding his arms behind his back.

"_What the hell is wrong with you?!"_ he shouted, livid. It probably would've been almost intimidating under normal circumstances if they didn't have inches of glass between them.

Eddie looked down. Despite the fact they were still trapped and probably neck deep in shit, he simply couldn't resist egging Parker on. "There's something wrong with us?" he asked innocently.

Parker still had his mask mostly on – the only visible part of his face was just his nose and mouth – but he was pissed, his skin flushing red.

"_You know what I mean!"_

Eddie watched as Parker strained again with the cuffs, for a second convinced he might break out of them considering they were starting to give off a screech of metal separating from metal; but after another second, he gave a pained grunt and slid against the glass walls, leaning on them heavily in exhaustion and panting, his chest heaving.

To tell the truth or not? The honest thing to do, the good _decent_ thing, was to tell it, to admit that yes, he remembered everything in all its gory detail and to explain everything to Parker about what happened last night, what had led up to it. Lay it all out there. The annoyingly human part of him said it was the least he deserved…but then that very same human part, the one that hated the kid, said he deserved jack and shit and he was going to get both. They got what they wanted. That was all that even mattered. After the pain he put them through, it was justice. If he was going to get told anything, it'd be bare bones, enough to drive him up the wall, always second-guessing himself and them, always jumping at what could have been. Wondering at the monster he thought he'd created, this greater being who preyed on the humans and it was all because of. Peter. Parker.

Oh yes, Eddie thought, he liked the idea.

Eddie Brock the man wouldn't have done this. Good thing Eddie Brock – human was gone. Eddie Brock - Host was what remained.

"You want the truth?" Eddie said. He sucked in a breath, letting it out in a hiss. "Everything's wrong with us. You know what we remember last? We remembered killing two of your coworkers and we couldn't control it."

He neglected to mention that while the lack of control was true, that he'd also left out some key details, like how they'd then went right past the taboo of murder and went for the whole cannibal shebang. Right now he could see the gears in Parker's pretty little head turning, trying to decide if he was lying or not, and wondering just how much of the symbiote a human like Eddie could even "control", if at all. Control. Eddie wanted to laugh. It wasn't a matter of control. He wasn't trying to fight the symbiote off. If they had issues, it was because they'd been pushed to that breaking point and had fallen as one until there was only rock bottom and the Spider was right there with him with his spectacular brand of bad timing and bad luck

Parker wavered, just a little, but was back on his proverbial feet in a flash. "Oh, isn't that convenient that you don't remember? What else _don't_ you remember?" he said sarcastically.

Eddie scowled. "Feeling like shit. You with your idiot plan."

"It was fine until you went and God, I don't even want to say what you did to me, except I'm gonna give you the biggest knuckle sandwich after all of this."

Eddie would've loved to see him try, to be frank. It'd probably be nothing more than a tickle, but that was assuming if they got out of here, not when. He gave Parker a blank look.

"You're still alive," Eddie pointed out helpfully. "So what did we do?"

He kept his face blank and clueless. Eddie wasn't a born actor, but you picked up a few things being a journalist out to get a story, not to mention centuries worth of memories from his Other: somewhere in there had to be a few acting lessons to benefit them. Managing to look baffled and honestly confused wasn't that hard.

Parker's eyes were hidden by the remnants of his mask so Eddie couldn't see just what he was thinking. But he had a pretty good guess after having a little chunk of Parker in him (even if it _was_ stolen), and he knew pissed or not, the kid really _did_ want to believe the best in him. It was one of his annoying traits, this inability to believe that he'd fucked it up by creating Venom and that they really was his worst nightmare and there was no reversing it, no miracle cure, no explanation that would make everything Alright. From the way he could see him biting his lip, Parker _was_ listening because of this naïve attitude of his, if only very reluctantly. It helped that they didn't exactly have a lot of options as to leaving at the moment.

"You did something…something bad to me," Parker said, tense. Ever the kid, he couldn't just go out and say what happened. "I should've just left you here."

Should've, would've, could've.

Didn't.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He couldn't sleep.

Peter Parker lay curled on his side, feeling jumpy. Okay, so he was usually always a little jumpy (it came with the job), but this was a lot worse than usual. Eddie was asleep, but Peter kept seeing him with those glazed over white eyes looming over him, face frighteningly slack of all expression. Shuddering, he clenched his eyes shut until it hurt. Concentrate. He had to concentrate; he was _still alive_, like Eddie said…but last night kept jumping up out of nowhere at him and he found the escape plans he kept trying to come up with just didn't want to go anywhere, instead sliding away as he kept reliving last night.

Did he blame himself?

Was this his fault?

Peter wasn't sure. Venom was his fault. It would seem like by default that this was too – it certainly wouldn't have happened if he hadn't resisted the symbiote that night so long ago instead of ditching it like yesterday's garbage. But no, no matter how it was eating him up inside, he couldn't agree all the way that what happened last night was his fault. He'd been so sure when he woke up he was going to beat the ever-living crap out of Eddie, wondering if he'd been planning this all along. But then he began to second-guess himself and now he wasn't sure who was responsible or just where the blame went.

His heart thudded hollowly in his chest, thundering in his head. Painfully vivid flashes kept coming at him even with his eyes closed. Why hadn't he seen that something was wrong with Eddie, something more wrong than usual? He knew he'd smelled blood, which made sense now that he knew Eddie had killed for some reason last night – but why hadn't he escaped? It didn't make sense. There was also the whole way Eddie acted. The man was possessed, but in the times Peter had seen him before, he hadn't ever acted like that – Eddie might've lost himself to the symbiote's empty promises, but he'd always seemed to be capable of intelligent thought, if not control over his own body. But last night…those eyes…

The lights were on but no one was home.

Something beeped suddenly outside the glass walls. Peter jumped, badly startled, and sat up so quickly he almost got whiplash. Breathing hard, the fight-or-flight reflex kicking into overdrive, he sucked in a trembling breath, so wired he could feel his arms and legs quivering as adrenaline pumped.

_Get a grip! _

Peter tried to think of how to handle this. Okay, so he had to get a grip. Glancing around, he tried to focus more on what he could see right there, in front of his face, and less on the details of last night. The room wasn't as big as the entire floor devoted to Eddie's cell, but it was long enough to hold at least five more tubes like the one he was in. Peering around, he was startled to realize that he wasn't alone in the room with Eddie: there was another prisoner the next tube over from Eddie. It was a little hard to see, but the prisoner looked almost as short as he was, curled up asleep, her head of red hair the only thing he could see.

He pressed himself to the glass at the same time trying to self-consciously cover up the remains of his costume that he could feel exposing his bits and wracked his brain trying to think of a way to escape. Touched the glass. Surprisingly warm to the touch, as if it'd been out in the sun, with a gentle thrum under its smooth surface. Feeling his way around, he wasn't particularly surprised to find that there wasn't a large enough space to get a finger through. It wasn't perfectly flush, but the few centimeters or so between glass and floor wasn't exactly an open door here. So much for that.

No webshooters either. That, surprisingly, had been the first thing he'd noticed after getting past the fact that parts of his body were sore and _hurt_ in places they had no right hurting. He'd been so used to feeling their weight around his wrists that their absence now was jarring, enough so that Peter could swear he was feeling phantom webshooters every now and then. No doubt "Mr." Smythe was having a field day with those, Peter thought, and found himself irrationally _angry_ about it.

Insult to injury honestly.

_Okay, think. You're the lab rat in Smythe's maze; question is, Pete, what's this little rat gonna do now? _Sit tight? Regain his strength and energy? He unlike Eddie didn't have a shock collar, so if anyone was going to be able to bust out of this tube thingie, it'd be him. But what if Smythe was expecting that? One of his little performance tests? Considering what little he knew of the scientist, it wasn't too far of a stretch.

Why didn't someone get him some clothes?

The thought came flying out of nowhere like a fastball. Peter supposed considering what he wore for "work", he really shouldn't be complaining but there was a big, huge difference between _skin tight_ and _all skin_ and he felt more exposed sitting here with the remains of his costume than he'd ever felt in his life.

He'd plenty of time to stew. Hours probably passed. It was hard to tell when you couldn't move and the scenery stayed the same; almost made going crazy like Eddie make sense. Now _he_ was going crazy if he was letting Eddie – Venom – off the hook even an inch!

Peter had no idea how long he'd been awake. What he _did_ know was he wasn't ready for the door to the room opening, a burly silhouette lit up from behind before the man walked through. Sand Dude. Flint Marko or whatever he called himself.

He watched warily as the big man came right at him, bracing himself. Did he want another go? Seriously? Peter felt crappy, but he was game if he had to be.

"Get up," said Flint, "an' no games."

Peter got to his feet, unconsciously trying to cover his bits and knowing just how futile it was when his costume was on the verge of falling apart. It was one thing to be fighting Flint as Spider-man, another to be facing him exposed and wondering if he knew who he really was, where he lived. The man's face was unreadable, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. Peter didn't move even as the glass tube slid up, glancing around expectantly, keeping an eye on Flint in case _he_ tried any games.

"We don't got all day. Make it snappy."

Peter slowly stepped through the opening, ducking his head a little and eying Flint through the lens of his mask. He waited until he was close enough and suddenly swung out with a kick that should've sent the man sprawling – instead he found himself horribly off balance, staggering with one leg stuck in Flint's side, sand puffing out harmlessly as the man looked down then back at him with an annoyed sigh.

"Kid," he said, "Gonna let that one slide jus' 'cause I'm a saint. But next time I toss you back with your freak pal."

Peter's foot was released, Flint catching him by the shoulder (he couldn't help flinching at the contact). He steered him out the door, giving Peter his first look of whatever lay outside the cell room. More halls, but it looked like they weren't in any of the floors he'd been to before. The floors weren't tiled, but instead covered with what had to be the softest carpet he'd ever walked on. Flint didn't give him a chance to bolt, keeping an arm on the shoulder – the bad one – and ready to squeeze if he thought his prisoner was getting any ideas. Peter certainly had some, but if he was going to get out of here, he at least needed to know where "here" was.

"So where's your boss?" Peter asked, relieved his voice wasn't shaking. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't afraid but that didn't mean he had to broadcast it to the world here. He had to be Spidey, not scared, confused Peter. "Sweet, no curfew here."

Flint grunted something sounding suspiciously like "un-fucking-believable" under his breath.

"Is it jus' a personality thing or what?" said Flint suddenly. "You jus' flick on th' smartass like a switch or is that shit always on?"

This was _probably_ the point where Peter should shut up.

"No, I was thinking more like those lamps? Y'know, you clap them and they turn on and – "

" – maybe it didn't sink in but – "

" – well, okay, maybe not like _that_, but you get the point, or I'd hope so, 'cause I know they're not paying you for your valedictorian GPA and I really, really think that model gig of yours is just a pipe dream, no offense, but there's just some things plastic surgery can't fix, man – "

Peter cut himself off when pain suddenly shot up from his injured shoulder like a spike. Flint relaxed his grip slightly, leaving Peter to pant a little as he tried to catch his wind and wish for one _lousy_ second people would lay off his shoulder. Seriously, come on!

"If you'd jus'shut up fer two seconds you'd know you're in so much shit it's not even funny."

"So…" Peter had to try again when the first attempt didn't come out, still catching his breath, "so when do I get the concrete shoes? Since it looks like you got me out here without Smythe tagging along and, honestly, this's got shady written all over the place."

Flint flicked him an expressionless look. "He ain't in th' need t'know circle."

What was that supposed to mean? Peter was left to wonder in silence as Flint led him through a maze of halls, eventually opening a door to a…an emergency exit? The stairs were empty and probably went all the way to a bottom he couldn't see. Was Flint thinking of tossing him over? Cause that probably wouldn't work, considering, y'know, sticky fingers and all that. Flint closed the door behind them, voice echoing a little in the empty stairwell as he blocked the door, arms crossed stubbornly over his burly chest.

"Gonna be straight with you. I didn't sign up for this an' far as I'm concerned, you didn't either."

Whatever smart aleck thing had been on the tip of Peter's tongue died. What he did manage was pretty lame: "…Aren't we supposed to be enemies? Y'know, you wail on me and I punch your lights out and we call it a day?"

"Didn't take no job t' beat up kids," Flint retorted.

"Who said I'm a kid?"

Flint heaved a rumbling sigh. "I already know who you are. Got you pegged for at least a week."

_Oh God_ circled around in Peter's head. He didn't need this right now – he didn't need this at all! He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Did Smythe know? Silver Lady had to know because somehow he doubted Sand Dude had it in him to figure all this out on his own. What would they do with his identity? Blackmail? Extortion? His legs felt weak as everything came crashing down on him in a wave. His secret identity wasn't so secret anymore. Last night. Venom. Eddie Brock. Peter very nearly sat down but his legs somehow held; the pounding of blood rushing almost drowned out what Flint Marko said next.

"So lay one on me an' get th' hell outta here."

"What?"

Flint rolled his eyes. "Do I gotta spell it out for you? Tellin' you t'run along an' go back to school or somethin'."

Peter's eyes narrowed behind his mask. This had to be some kind of trick. Maybe they just knew he was from Queens or – or they'd figured out he was young, yeah, but maybe this was just a trick to get him to book it on out of here so they could follow him back like some kind of idiot.

"And I should trust you why, exactly? I mean, you got bad guy written all over your face."

"I coulda outted your ass," Flint said, laying the bluntness on thick. "Can't speak for Silver Sable, but I ain't gonna sell your name off to th' highest bidder."

Peter thought he was a pretty good judge of character. It was something he'd gotten a little better at after doing the whole hero business. Came with the territory. Looking at Flint, he was pretty sure he wasn't that good of an actor to be looking at him and not showing any signs of lying or nervousness. Did he know Peter's real name? Peter was fairly sure he did now. Somehow they'd found out who Venom really was and that wouldn't have been possible unless they'd found out who he was too. Feeling cold, Peter hugged his arms around him and leaned up against the railing, resting a hip on it as he studied Flint.

"I can't leave," Peter said. "Not yet."

Flint's face was an open book. "Gunnin' for more punishment?"

"It's Brock."

"Leave him."

Peter shook his head. "He's coming with me."

"I can't let th' both of you go. Screams inside job," Flint growled, his voice lowered as if he thought they were being overheard. "He's dangerous. Y'know what he can do, so why waste your time with th' bastard?"

It was really too long to go into, especially standing here in this cold stairwell and having the feeling that this window wouldn't be open long. But Peter only shook his head again.

"I can't. I…it's complicated," Peter said lamely. Even he didn't know why he bothered these days and he could all too well understand the look of bewildered confusion on Flint's face. "But it's a bad idea if he's left behind with Smythe. Think Brock's dangerous? What if people like Smythe get what makes him so dangerous? Ever think about that?"

Sighing, Flint reached up and scratched the back of his head. Sand sprinkled down like snow, trickling down to the floor only to slide back into his feet. Peter wondered how he'd ended up with sand powers of all things and realized he'd probably never know.

"Kid, you just gotta go an' make things harder than they should be."

Flint was silent for so long, chewing on his lip, that Peter was convinced maybe he was having second thoughts. "No promises," said Flint gruffly. "Hell, never know if I might change my mind."

"That's enough," Peter said. "So what now?"

Flint stared at him pointedly. With his face, Flint looked pretty damn intimidating even when he wasn't trying to kick your butt all over New York.

"Clothes."

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

Something was up.

You didn't need to be a genius to figure that one out. There'd been more coming and going within the past day then there had been for _months_. It was the beginning of the end.

See, Kasady was special. By all rights, s/he should've been very very sick, like coma-sick, only s/he wasn't and it was because s/he had something Smythe wanted. S/he knew that much. The scientist hadn't told him/her much, but it'd been enough over time to get a general picture. Getting poked and prodded in all kinds of awesome places had been…interesting, but pointless so far. Why bother, Kasady asked more than once, and got jack in response. To this day, s/he still had no idea what the fuck it was Smythe wanted; all s/he knew was he didn't have it and s/he did. Or, at least, a _part_ of it.

Not everything.

Kasady debated ratting out Flint to Smythe.

Thought about it.

Then thought about it some more.

Nah.

S/he wanted to see where the hell this was going. Normally his/her attention span was crap, but taking a break from dodging death row helped keep that ADD in order. Or was it OCD? LCD? LSD? Who even cared?

All Kasady knew was Eddie was important enough to Smythe to get the five star treatment here, even if he was too oblivious to know what he had going for him, and that it'd be a lot more fun to keep his/her mouth shut and just watch and be entertained instead of being teacher's asshole and ratting out Flint. Kasady could do entertained. A lot of things entertained her/him. There was always dicking around with Flint, dicking around with Smythe, kicking a few puppies and hey, throw in a few cases of manslaughter and s/he'd be set.

Being short of puppies, Kasady was left with no choice but to chill out here and see where this went.

**To be continued...**

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X


End file.
